Fill my lungs with (tiny stories)
by glass-jars
Summary: Michael is an elementary school teacher living in a tiny seaside town in Oregon. Chuck writes children's books, and has just moved into town. They meet, they fall in love over the summer. (There's a boating accident near the end. No one dies.)
1. Tiny Stories

_(A/N:_

_*No smut and no sex but there's ooooone vague scene early-ish on with Chuck having some... __alone time._  
*Un-beta'd, as of yet. A few typos may crop up. I'll fix them eventually.  
*Lucifer doesn't come in until nearer the end, and he's called Nick.  
*Michael is asexual, and there's a bit of an un-fun backstory to that but he was never assaulted or anything. He just had kind of a shitty relationship with his ex-fiance.

_Enjoy.)_

* * *

_(The universe is not made of atoms; it's made of tiny stories.)_

* * *

Michael leaned his bicycle against the big maple tree just behind the schoolhouse. He straightened his collar and dusted off his jeans, and headed inside. A half hour to spare until the assembly—a half hour he would spend in one of the two classrooms, herding small children and ensuring they got at least a little work done. He hoisted his messenger bag on his shoulder. Sunlight poured in through the classroom's windows, so he kept the light off as he made his way toward his desk.

He let his messenger bag thud to the floor beside the desk as he sat down. It made a satisfying thunk. His class of third graders were set to arrive rather soon. He would have just enough time to situate them before the guest speaker showed up. Assuming the guest speaker, a children's book author named Chuck Shurley, showed up on time.

A glance at the clock confirmed that he had about thirty minutes before the students would begin to trickle in. Forty until the guest would arrive. He organized his things on the desk, leaned back in his chair, and glanced out the window at the maple tree. Its leaves rustled in the slight breeze. Sunlight filtered between the branches.

Michael found himself dozing a little, warm and content in his chair, with soft light streaming in from outside.

The rumble of the school bus (one of less than five in the entire town) alerted him to the arrival of his students. Then laughter, and chatter. Occasional screeching. He stood up, and began to write on the chalkboard.

Kids popped into the class one by one, until all of the third graders sat in their desks, talking amongst each other all the while. Michael gave them a cursory glance to ensure no one was missing, as he scratched out Chuck Shurley's name on the board in light blue chalk. He underlined the name three times and wrote ,"author," underneath it.

He returned the chalk to its little ledge, dusting his hands off on his jeans—a bad habit he really needed to work on. He went to the windows and pushed them open a little bit to let in the early summer breeze. Then, he turned around to face the class—if somewhat diagonally—and said, "Good morning, children." He smiled, just barely.

"Good morning, Michael!" Many bright grins greeted him, and his smiled widened. He loved the children, and their imagination and sweetness. Even on his first day teaching, as a new member of the town, they'd greeted him with enthusiasm and welcoming. Despite his intimidating appearance they loved him. He just wasn't a very sunny person—didn't feel the need to display whether he was in a good mood or not. But they didn't mind, when he didn't smile. They smiled enough for themselves and him as well. And if he was stern, they always seemed unfazed and understanding. If he scolded them (gently) they listened, and if he rewarded them (often) they lit up the room with their smiles.

The children were probably the only ones who treated him so affectionately.

He moved back toward his desk, and sat down. "Today," he said. "We're going to have that guest speaker I told you about. The author." He paused, and scanned the class. Each child watched him curiously. Even Oliver, who usually liked to stare out the window. Michael tapped one finger on his desk before continuing. "Do you remember what books he wrote?"

A few children looked at each other. In the front, a little girl raised her hand.

"Yes, Ophelia?"

She swung her legs, and said, thoughtfully, "Um, was it _Baby Butterfly and Madame Moth?_"

Michael nodded, and leaned back in his chair. "Yes, that's one. Anyone know the others?" He spared a glance for the clock—still about five minutes left before Chuck Shurley was set to show up.

Several of his students shifted, muttering between each other, to see if they could remember. One shouted out, "_Ladybug Knight_!" with a wide beaming grin.

"Right! And...? What's the chapter book?"

Faces of concentration swept the room—pursed mouths and crinkled little brows, with exaggerated squints and scratches of the head and rubs of the chin. One boy with curly, dark hair—Max—tilted his head to the side. A girl named Martina in the far back corner pouted while she thought.

To be fair, Michael had told them about it almost a week ago. A week is a very long time for a third grader.

Rae, the shortest in the class, with a braid down to her knees, threw both of her hands in the air with wide eyes. "_Steam Cat!_"

She looked like she might leap out of her seat at any moment. Michael nodded, and she clapped her hands together. At that moment, the sound of a motor filled the air before cutting out sharply. Michael frowned and stood, heading toward the classroom's door. He leaned out into the hall and waited. Across from him, Sarah peered out her class' door, as well. They exchanged curious glances.

Sarah mouthed, "Is that him?"

Michael shook his head and said, "I don't know."

She seemed to disapprove.

After a few seconds more, the door opened, and a mousy man fumbled with the door a moment before finally getting through. He scurried over, resettling the messenger bag hanging from his shoulder. He stopped in front of Michael. "I'm Chuck Shurley—I hope I'm not late!" He tugged on the sleeve of his crisp white dress shirt—he seemed skittish, and fidgety. "I got a little lost on the way over!"

"Hello, Mr. Shurley." Michael held his hand out for Chuck to shake. "You're actually right on time." Chuck's handshake was not particularly firm, but it was friendly.

Chuck let out a relieved breath, bouncing a little on his feet as he released Michael's hand. "Thank goodness!" He straightened his shirt. "What am I reading, by the way? Mr...?" He bit his lip, just a bit, and tilted his head curiously. It was endearing.

Michael, expression perhaps a little stiff, but mild, held the door to his classroom open and said, "Call me Michael. All the children do. And we're probably going to vote on which book to read."

Almost immediately after Chuck entered the classroom, the children directed their chatter at him. Question upon question, a mile a minute. He held up his hands in surrender and tried his best to answer them in order—

"Do you have pet bugs?!"

"Well, no..."

"I heard a motorcycle, did you come here on a motorcycle? My mom has a motorcycle!"

"Oh, really? That's interesting. I did come here on a motorcycle."

"Is your beard real?"

"What—yes!"

"Why are you so twitchy? My brother is twitchy 'cause he smokes."

"I'm not—"

"You look like a librarian!"

"Quiet, everyone!" Michael took Chuck's arm and swept him toward the front of the class. He steered Chuck into a smallish chair behind the table in front of the chalkboard and shot his students a stern, but amused, half-glare. "Remember what I said about being polite and welcoming to Mr. Shurley? Raise your hands if you have any _urgent_ questions." He raised his eyebrows. "We _do_ want him to read to us, after all."

Chuck cleared his throat, where he sat. "Speaking of which!" He set his palms on the tabletop and glanced around. "What do you all want me to read?" He eyed them all.

"I want the one about the knight!" A girl in the front row squirmed in her seat.

Chuck nodded, solemnly, and leaned forward, reaching one hand up to tap his chin. "That's a good one. Any other requests?"

The children murmured indecisively.

Michael stepped forward and planted his hands on his hips. "I have an idea. We can vote on which book to read."

More murmurs, and nodding heads.

Chuck grinned, while Michael took a vote—_Ladybug Knight_ won by a landslide. (If you could call a vote of seven versus five a landslide.) He set his messenger bag on the floor beside his feet, and watched Michael retrieve a battered copy of the book from its shelf. He rummaged around until he found his reading glasses, and shoved them onto his face.

One student whispered, "Now he looks extra like a librarian."

Chuck wrinkled his nose, but he laughed. "I'm not a librarian, I swear." He leaned back in his chair. "I'm just a writer and a painter."

"That's right, you paint your own illustrations, don't you?" Michael set the book on the table in front of Chuck. "Very admirable."

Face reddening somewhat, Chuck shook his head with a comical frown. "I wouldn't say it's _admirable_." He fiddled with his collar. "Just artistic?"

Michael smiled a little bit as he headed to his desk. He sat, and said, "Still, quite impressive."

"I—uh—" Chuck cleared his throat again. "Anyway! Should we start?"

The response was many enthusiastic nods and a chorus of "Yes."

He opened _Ladybug Knight_ and began to read.

* * *

Everyone ate lunch outside. There were a few picnic tables, and some quilts laid out in the grass, under the shade from the maple and cherry trees. Children sat scattered about in haphazard little clumps, talking with their mouths full and gesturing wildly as they no doubt told intricate and imaginative stories.

Sarah sat near a particularly large group, and Greg was somewhat nearby, in the middle of a clump of about ten children, all between the ages of five and eight.

Michael had situated himself directly under a tree, leaning against its trunk and basking in the soft shadows it provided in the slight heat of early June. He'd rolled his shirtsleeves up and loosened his navy blue tie, and hummed to himself as he ate dried salmon with crackers. The grass rustled with footsteps and he looked up to see Chuck standing in front of him, shifting nervously on his feet.

"Mr. Shurley," Michael made an effort to swallow the food in his mouth before continuing. "Would you like to sit with me?"

Chuck smiled and let out a breathy laugh. "Yes, yes. Thanks." He dropped to his knees at an angle from Michael. "I, uh... I didn't want to just sit alone, but you're really the only one I know, you know?" He grimaced at the words leaving his mouth. Crossed his legs and twisted a loose string from the hem of his jeans between his fingers. "I hope I'm not bothering you."

"Of course not." Michael shook his head. "I don't mind at all. But... tell me..." He paused, sweeping his eyes over Chuck. "Do you have anything to eat?"

Chuck's face scrunched up—wrinkled nose, twisted mouth and crinkled eyebrows. "I forgot to pack it—I had a hectic morning. Half my stuff is in boxes so it's like—" He caught himself rambling and bit back his sentence. "Sorry. You probably don't wanna hear about my weird personal stuff." He scratched the back of his neck.

"I take it you've recently moved?" Michael pushed his package of salmon toward Chuck. "And, please, share with me. I've been eating nothing but dried fish for lunch for a week. I'm trying to get rid of it."

Chuck wanted to protest, but Michael only pushed the food more insistently toward him, so he gave in with an embarrassed grin and soft, "Thanks." He nibbled on a piece of fish for a moment before saying, "You're right, though. I just moved into town a few days ago, actually." He shrugged. "Portland was neat and all, but I felt like I needed a change. You know?"

"I do. I've done the same thing." Michael smiled. "Also, welcome to town. I hope you like it here."

Chuck nodded. "It's cute."

They ate in silence for a few more minutes, until Michael spoke again.

"I'm sorry if the children overwhelmed you, earlier. The third graders can be very... excitable."

Chuck laughed. "No, no." He gnawed on a piece of salmon. "To be honest, I'm always kind of overwhelmed, so I don't mind so much. Helps that kids are adorable."

"It does." Michael nodded.

More silence, filled in with the sound of crunching crackers and crinkling wrappers.

Chuck plucked a blade of grass from a spot near his hip and twirled it between his fingers. Michael watched him curiously, while he drank from a steel water bottle. Chuck poked the tip of his finger with the end of the grass so that the little blade bent this way and that. He let it flutter back down to the ground and stretched his legs out—the sunlight landed on his shins—and leaned back on his palms.

"So," He watched the children, all eating or running around under the watchful eyes of their teachers. "What are the classes you teach, exactly?" He shot Michael a glance.

Michael closed the top on his box of crackers and finished chewing before he responded. "I teach English—Reading, grammar and spelling. The basics." He shifted where he sat against the tree trunk. "You saw the third graders in the morning, and the second graders after that. I teach the first graders after lunch and then school's out."

"So do you teach in like... cycles?"

Michael nodded. "Sarah does math and science, and Greg does music and art in the library upstairs. We rotate so I have third, she has second, and he has first, and then second and first and third, and so on."

Chuck hummed. "That's an interesting way to do it. How many students are there?"

"Thirty."

Chuck set his full attention on Michael, incredulous. "Only thirty?!"

Another nod, with amusement clear in Michael's gray eyes. "We're a small town."

"I guess so..." Chuck let his hands slide back, and lay down in the grass, looking up at the sky. "I'm used to so many more people but... I think I could like a small town like this." He turned his head to look at Michael.

Michael gave him a tiny smile. "I hope you do."

"I hope so too."

* * *

Chuck left his motorcycle propped up in his carport. He would have liked to be able to put it in a garage, really, but with a town this small he figured it wouldn't get stolen. Probably. Hopefully. Anyway, the duplex didn't have a garage. Just a kind of shaded concrete area like a driveway.

He pulled his helmet off as he walked inside, and dropped his bag to the floor. Shut the door and leaned against it with a sigh. Closed his eyes. He liked reading to kids, but he'd be a filthy liar if he didn't admit it drained him—mentally, physically, emotionally. He needed either a great deal of coffee, a stiff drink, or a lot of macaroni and cheese.

He opted for all three. Stood over the stove watching the water boil while his coffee maker made little popping noises. When it finished, he poured the coffee into a mug—which he scrounged from a box in the kitchen—and augmented it with a little bit of rum he'd found in his cooking supplies the other day. As for the mac and cheese... Well, he set the saucepan on a potholder on the floor, sitting in front of it, and ate directly from the pan.

Afterward, feeling a little too warm through a combination of the sunlight filling his house and the hot food and rum, Chuck decided he would take a nap.

He woke to the sunset shooting its pink and gold rays through the bedroom window, head throbbing.

"Fuck."

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he sat up on his mattress—settled on the bare floorboards, because he hadn't gotten around to setting up the frame yet. He fumbled for his phone. Accidentally dropped it. He cursed and grabbed it from the floor, sliding it open. One missed message from his dad. He let out a groan. Hit speed dial—and, yes, he had his father on speed dial—and waited for less than one ring before his father picked up.

"Chuck!" His dad sounded pleased and relieved. "I was worried. I tried calling you twice but you didn't answer, and I thought maybe you got crushed under a box."

Rolling onto his stomach, Chuck laughed a little. "Dad, I'm fine. I was just taking a nap."

"Oh, good. How are you settling in over there? When can I visit you and embarrass you in front of all the new friends you'll be making?"

Chuck rolled his eyes. "Like I said—I'm fine. And I dunno that there'll be a whole lot of friends to really embarrass me in front of. It's so small here. I met a couple of people, when I did a reading at the elementary school—there are only thirty students!" He stuck his face in his pillow for half a second before murmuring, "One of the teachers there is pretty nice. I—I mean, I'm sure they're all nice but he just... I dunno."

His dad laughed, and then said, "So, you're telling me you have a crush?"

"No! _Dad!_" Chuck wrinkled his nose. "God, I don't even _need_ friends for you to embarrass me."

More laughter. Then a quiet pause where Chuck heard his dad breathe for a moment before asking, "For real, though. You sure you're okay? If you need me, ever, you know you can call, right?" Another pause. "I worry about you, far away from me in a strange place."

"Dad, I'm thirty-seven. I'm okay. I'm fine."

"Okay, if you're so fine, what did you eat today?"

Chuck closed his eyes with a sigh. "Um... I had some coffee." He rubbed his hand over his face. "And I just had some more coffee with uh... with rum. And mac and cheese."

"Is that all? What about lunch? Did you actually eat anything other than noodles?"

"...I had some crackers and dried fish one of the teachers at the school offered me. I forgot to bring my own lunch."

His father scoffed and said, "You may be thirty-seven but you're still terrible at taking care of yourself." There was rustling from the end of the line, and Chuck assumed his father had sat down. "Chuck, I know you're a grown-ass man, but you're still my little boy and I do worry about you. You need to eat more than just coffee, booze and macaroni."

Chuck rested his cheek against his pillow, letting his phone balance precariously on his face as he dropped his hand over the edge of the bed. "I know, I'm terrible." He tapped his fingertips against the floor. "I'll go to the grocery store or something. I don't know. I have a headache and a million boxes to unpack and it's stuffy in here. Maybe if I just get some air—walk on the beach or something. I mean I came here to get away from all the crowds and pollution and broken windows in Portland. The least I can do is take a walk."

"Drink some water, and then go take a walk. And if you're really having trouble with anything, call me. Okay?"

"Okay." Chuck grabbed his phone off of his face and rolled onto his back. "Okay, I'll call you. I'm gonna go now. Bye."

"Bye, Chuck. Love you, buddy."

"Yeah. Yeah, I love you too, Dad."

Chuck snapped his phone shut and set it on his chest. He stared up at the ceiling for a while, lit by the dim setting sun. It was almost dark out. Chuck sighed, and pulled himself out of bed. His phone dropped to the floor with a thud, again, and he closed his eyes. "God." He bent over to pick it up and slipped it into his pocket, hoping it wasn't broken.

He slipped on his shoes and grabbed one of his cloth grocery bags—he owned three—and made sure his keys were in his pocket before stepping out onto the carport. He shivered a little. It may have been June, and generally warm, but with the sunlight fading and the breeze off the water it was actually just a little chilly. Not enough to be unpleasant though. It was nice. Though maybe he should have grabbed a thin sweatshirt. He shrugged, and set off down the road.

Rather than go immediately to the grocery store, Chuck headed to the beach.

On the sand, he hunched his shoulders and shoved his hands into his pockets. Definitely should have worn his sweatshirt. The wind pushed at his hair. He closed his eyes and breathed deep. The air smelled salty and clean and a little smoky. He opened his eyes and glanced around, curious.

A few hundred feet away, on a higher part of the beach, an orange house—the color of easy mac, Chuck thought—sat, surrounded by an unpainted wooden fence. Out in front of it, down an incline, in the sand, someone stood beside the source of a long curl of white smoke. They moved around a little bit, and dumped sand on what Chuck assumed was a little bonfire. Smoke and dust puffed out into the air. The person disappeared around the side of the house, then reappeared with a bucket. They dumped water over the spot as well. They noticed Chuck, and set off down the beach toward him.

Chuck froze where he stood. Whoever it was probably wouldn't appreciate his obvious staring. He panicked a little and turned around, ducking his head and turning back in the direction he'd come. He stumbled a little, as he scurried up the slope of the sand to the road.

"Wait!"

It was a man. Familiar-sounding.

Chuck turned. "Oh—!" He tripped backwards on a clump of weeds and landed on his ass in the sand. Caught himself with one hand on the sidewalk right alongside him, and winced. "_Shit_." He lay back against the ground with a grimace, embarrassed beyond belief. "Hi, Michael."

Michael looked down at him, hands in his jacket pockets, barely smiling. "Hello, Mr. Shurley." He freed a hand and held it out for Chuck to take.

"Hi—sorry. I already said that." Chuck grasped Michael's hand and let himself be pulled to his feet. "Um. Thanks?" He shrugged and crossed his arms, looking away. At the waves.

Shaking his head, Michael said, "You're welcome. You should be more careful." He slipped his hand back into its pocket. "Why were you running, anyway?"

"I was uh—embarrassed." Chuck scrunched his face up, and kicked at the sand. "'Cause you saw me watching you—I didn't know it was you. I just. Saw the smoke. I was curious." He shivered a little, as the wind picked up again. "Sorry."

"Why are you apologizing?" Michael shook his head. "You didn't do anything. You could have hurt yourself though." He gestured with his head toward the sidewalk.

Chuck nodded. "Yeah. Uh, sorr—Jesus. Shit. Sorry." Chuck pulled a face. "Dammit."

Michael smiled a little wider, and held his hand out again. "Don't be so hard on yourself. Come on." He nodded toward the beach. "I'll show you something."

"I—okay. Okay." Chuck took Michael's hand and followed Michael down the sand. The heat between their palms made Chuck's hand sweat, and he could have kicked himself for being such a _dork_. He focused on trying not to trip again, instead, and hoped Michael wouldn't be grossed out by his most-definitely damp hand.

The sand shifted under his shoes and he frowned. The wind picking up little grains and sending them flying into his face didn't help, either. "What are you gonna show me?" Hopefully Michael wasn't secretly a murderer or something terrible. Maybe he knew where a wave pool was.

"Just wait," Michael said, and tugged more insistently. Like a little kid.

Chuck nodded.

Pretty soon, a barking sound could be heard. Chuck began to walk faster, pulling up level with Michael. "Are you serious?" He grinned, as they crested a little hill of sand and weeds.

The beach grew rockier as it stretched away, and about a hundred feet away, a group of harbor seals and more than a few pups lay on the shore. Michael stopped walking, so Chuck stopped as well and looked at the seals from afar. He realized his hand was still joined with Michael's, and blushed, dropping it to his side and rubbing his palm on his jeans. Michael just smiled minutely and gazed out over the beach.

"Aren't they cute?"

Chuck squinted. "Well, yeah, but I can't see them very well." His mouth twisted. He'd left his glasses on the windowsill by his bed like the idiot he was. "Can we go closer?"

"A little bit." Michael grabbed his elbow and pulled him down the hill until they were only about fifty feet away. He glanced at Chuck. "Is that better? I know it's dark, but we're not allowed to go closer." He seemed distressed at the idea that Chuck might not be able to see them as well as he'd like.

Chuck huffed out a little laugh, and grinned at his feet. He raised his head and looked at the seals. "That's better." He crossed his arms, shivering a little now that the sun had gone done almost completely—only a little sliver of yellowy-orange light on the horizon was left. The stars had begun to come out.

Michael turned to him, with a downward turn to his mouth. "Are you cold?"

"No! No, I'm not—maybe a little bit." Chuck scratched the back of his neck. Michael began to pull his jacket off, and Chuck reached out with wide eyes. "Don't—I don't need your jacket! I'm fine, I swear!" He let his hand rest briefly on Michael's elbow before pulling his arm back like he'd been burned. "I'm fine."

"No," Michael shook his head and shrugged the rest of the way out of his jacket. "Your arms are covered in goosebumps." He reached around and slung the charcoal-colored coat around Chuck's shoulders, and smoothed down the collar. "Let me walk you home." He smiled. "It's dark. We don't want you to hurt yourself if you can't see something." He led Chuck back in the direction they had come.

Chuck glared at him, as they walked, half-offended. "I'm not _blind!_"

"My apologies." Michael chuckled. "Watch out for that piece of driftwood."

Chuck stumbled over the chunk of wood, but Michael steadied him, with a smug smile fixed on his lips. "Careful."

"I'm being careful." Chuck tugged away from Michael.

Michael laughed and followed closely after him, bare feet silent in the sand compared to Chuck's noisy scraping. "Still..." He looked up at the sky, where the stars peeked out much more thickly. "Even _I_ hurt myself, sometimes. And I live on the beach." He let his hand drift near Chuck's lower back, almost touching but not quite.

"Oh, right. That orange house?" Chuck glanced over his shoulder at Michael. "It's cute. Do you live alone?" He frowned. "That's not really any of my business, huh?"

Michael shook his head. He pulled forward, a little more level with Chuck, and his hand pressed warm against Chuck's back. He watched the sea as he walked. "I live alone." His eyes went back to Chuck. They looked silver in the moonlight. He tilted his head. "What about you?"

"Me?"

"Do you live alone?" Michael raised his eyebrows, and turned a little, steering Chuck toward the sidewalk, now that they were on the sandier area of the beach.

Chuck nodded. "I do." When his feet touched the concrete he pulled a little bit away from Michael.

"Where?"

"Why?"

"Well," Michael tried not to smirk, but failed pretty miserably. "You know where I live, and I _am_ walking you home."

Blushing, Chuck looked away. "Right." He pulled his—no, Michael's—jacket tighter about himself. He scuffed his shoe along the sidewalk. "I live just down that street." He paused, and before Michael could say anything, exclaimed, "Shit! I need to go to the store!" He stopped walking. "I don't know where the store is."

"I can show you..." Michael scratched the back of his leg with his toes.

Chuck looked at him. "Would you?" His forehead crinkled. "I can make you dinner or something, to say thanks."

Michael began to walk down the sidewalk. His calves were caked with sand, Chuck noticed—now that he could see him clearer in the light from the streetlamps. He looked over his shoulder at Chuck and said, "You don't have to do anything for me, but I certainly won't turn down a meal." And there was that soft smile again. The kind Chuck's dad liked to call a "Mona Lisa smile."

"Well, then... I insist!" Chuck scurried forward to catch up with Michael. "You've been so helpful even though you only just met me this morning. I have to do _something_. It's the least I can do." He fell into step beside Michael and grinned at him.

Michael caught his eye. "Well, then... I accept your invitation." His eyes twinkled.

Chuck looked down at the sidewalk.

* * *

"So, you don't eat any meat other than fish?" Chuck moved to take Michael's plate, but Michael turned the tables on him and took _Chuck's_ plate instead, taking them both to the sink. Chuck glared at him half-heartedly. "I was gonna clean those."

Michael ran the water and began to scrub at their used dishes. "I'll clean them instead. You cooked, so you shouldn't clean." He paused, focusing on a particularly stubborn piece of cheese that had melted and then dried on the very edge of one plate. Once satisfied he'd scrubbed it into oblivion, he shot over his shoulder, "And yes, I only eat seafood, as far as meat goes."

"Not even like... beef?"

"Especially not beef." Michael smiled.

Chuck nodded. "No, I guess that would be like cannibalism."

Michael paused. He looked over his shoulder at Chuck, who sat at the table with a cheeky grin and a red face. He tilted his head. Turned back to the dishes with a tiny little smirk. "Are you flirting with me, Mr. Shurley?"

"Maybe?" Chuck shrugged, folding his arms on the tabletop and resting his head against them.

"Well, I'm flattered that you equate me with beef, but really when you put it like that it sounds like you're calling me a cow."

Chuck frowned. "You're ruining the moment."

"Am I?" Michael set both plates in the dish rack beside the sink and shut the water off as he turned around to face Chuck. He wiped his wet hands on his jeans and crossed his arms. "I didn't know there was a moment. I thought it was more like a split second of a terrible pickup line." He seemed to be smiling, but... as usual, it wasn't clear. Chuck just couldn't tell, with that slight curve of the mouth.

He sighed. "It wasn't _that_ bad, was it?"

"No." Michael moved toward the table and sat down. "It was cute. The most confusing way to call me a beefcake you could possibly have come up with." He leaned his elbows against the tabletop.

"Ah."

Michael nodded.

Chuck ran his hand back through his hair and scratched his neck, looking up at Michael a little crookedly from where he leaned his head on his arm. He smiled, and glanced away. "I thought you were kinda scary when I first saw you—since you're all serious and quiet and... buff—but you know... You're not very scary at all." He wrinkled his nose. "You're like a garden snake. You seem threatening but you're not."

"I thought I was a beef cow." Michael raised his eyebrows. "And I can be very scary, thank you very much."

Chuck snorted. "You're wearing a Henley with suspenders and rolled up jeans. You look like a _farmer_."

"I take offense at that." Michael leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "I prefer the term 'hipster fisherman.'"

"What?" Chuck scoffed. He sat up and crossed his ankles. "You're weird."

Michael eyed him, still wearing that maybe-smile. "Am _I_ the weird one? You write books about talking bugs and you made me a grilled macaroni and cheese sandwich for dinner."

"Hey now! My daddy taught me to make that." Chuck kicked at Michael under the table. "And practically all kids' books are about talking animals. As an elementary school teacher you oughta know that."

"I suppose you're right." Michael pushed his chair back from the table and stood. "Anyway, I should be going. It's late." He glanced down at himself, and tugged on his suspenders before turning away and saying, "These are considered cool, by the way." He made his way into the hallway.

Chuck scrambled to his feet and followed him. "Hang on, I'm supposed to show you out!" He ran up and caught the door just as Michael was opening it. He shut it and slid between it and Michael. "My job as your host is to show you the door." He grinned, pushing Michael away enough to open the door himself. "It was lovely having you over, Michael. I hope to see you soon." He half-bowed, trying not to laugh.

"Indeed. I imagine we'll meet soon enough." Michael smirked, and took Chuck's hand in his own. He bent to press a kiss to his knuckles. Straightened and stepped out onto the carport. "Goodnight."

"Uh—" Chuck blinked. "Goodnight!" He watched Michael walk away, and tried to ignore the blush creeping up the back of his neck. He shut the door when Michael disappeared into the shadows between two streetlamps. Leaned against it and stood for a moment in his dark hallway. He looked down at his shoes. "Wait." He made a scrunched up face. "Did he—Who _does_ that?!" He couldn't help but grin, though. Glanced at his knuckles. "Kissed my hand. Stupid." He made his way into the other room, giddy all the while.

* * *

Michael paused just outside his door, with the lavender brushing up to his knees in the sea breeze. He shook his head, and left the fragrant flowers behind, slipping into his house and muttering, "I left my coat." He didn't bother to lock his door. Just shut it with his heel and wiped his sandy feet off on the doormat, and padded across the bare wood boards toward the ceiling-high bank of shelves that held his books and music. He flicked through his records until he found one he liked, and put it on the white turntable he kept on one of the more spacious shelves—where most people would keep a television.

He let the needle fall where it would, which happened to be halfway through "Title and Registration." He smiled to himself and moved to the couch (dark brown and plain), reaching for his white wicker basket full of sewing projects. Found an embroidery hoop with a piece of fabric stretched between it with half of a windblown tree cross-stitched into it. He pulled the pattern out from where he'd stashed it, flattening it out on his knee, and stared at both the paper and the fabric for a few minutes.

Eventually, he settled more comfortably against the arm of the couch, knees up, and went about his embroidery.

He fell into the familiar routine of threading the needle back and forth, leaving behind his little trail of x-shaped stitches as he sang under his breath with Death Cab for Cutie. It was a nighttime ritual, for him. Every night before bed he would work on some kind of embroidery project and often listen to music while he did so. Sometimes he lay in bed while he stitched, sometimes on the couch. Sometimes it was at nine pm just after he'd brushed his teeth, other times at three in the morning when he couldn't sleep.

Other nights, like this one, he fell asleep with the hoop in his lap, to the sound of the record player's needle scratching across vinyl.

...

The next morning, Chuck woke earlier than usual, and decided it would be a good day to write. He wandered downstairs. Found Michael's jacket on the kitchen table.

Chuck held out the gray twill work coat. He sighed. "He did this on purpose because he knew I'd have to give it back." He rolled his eyes and draped the jacket over his arm, as he headed for the front door. He stopped briefly in the hallway to shoved the coat into his bag alongside his laptop, and readjusted his hoodie under the strap as he walked outside.

The weather was nice that day. Mild. Drizzling lightly, but warm and still sunny in patches so that the light colored everything a little golden and a little purple in sheer bars from between the clouds. He closed his eyes against the soft rain for a moment and breathed in the clean air. He cinched his bag tighter around his shoulders and buckled the extra strap underneath his armpit to stabilize it against his back, and shoved his helmet onto his head.

His bike started cleanly, and its red paint flashed in the filtered sunlight.

As he rode through town he realized he probably should have stopped at Michael's house first to give him his jacket, but... too late. He'd already made it out of the city limits (not that it took much) and had started off toward an area he'd begun to make a habit of frequenting in the past few days.

It was just an unassuming little copse of trees, from the outside. He parked his bike just out of sight in the undergrowth and made his way between narrow trunks until it opened up into a clearing full of forget-me-nots. They carpeted the ground in blue, though they thinned out nearer the center of the little clearing. They seemed thickest around the edge of the trees, in the half-light. He sat in the middle of it all, in the shifting sunlight and barely-there rain, and pulled his laptop and lunchbox out of his messenger bag. Opened both, and started his computer while he opened a little Tupperware container of grapes.

He chewed on them absently, and hummed to himself.

Battery life: five and a half hours.

So he would give himself four and a half, since the computer usually died faster than it said it would.

He opened the proper word document for his current project. He skimmed over some of what he'd typed up to refresh his memory, and began to write. Every once in a while he ate a handful of grapes, until they were gone. Then he switched over to the crackers. Continued to tap away at his keyboard.

The only time he interrupted himself was after writing about ten thousand words, because he needed to pee. So he relieved himself in the bushes, and returned to writing.

After a while, though, clouds blanketed the sky completely—low-hanging and dark, bruised with black and violet and deep blue, edged in silver and white. Fat drops of rain fell at random. Splattered Chuck's computer, and his glasses. His sweatshirt too. The forget-me-nots nodded under the slowly increasing fall.

He let out a breath. Time to go home early, he supposed. And with a full hour of battery life still left. He saved everything and shut his computer down. Packed everything up and shoved it into his bag. Strapped it to himself. Fully ready to leave.

Chuck rode slower than usual, in the growing rain. Didn't want to crash, after all. His father would worry himself sick if that happened, and Chuck didn't want to make his dad sick. So he was careful. Sensible. Only went over the speed limit like... _once_.

He stopped at his duplex, parking his bike under the carport, and immediately began to walk toward the beach.

It was fully raining, at that point. Big round drops plunging down from the sky, slightly warm and dampening the ground instantly. Chuck glanced up at the purple clouds and quickened his step. The breeze picked up, flicking grains of sand up into his face, and he glared at the ground. Broke into a run when the rain shifted into a heavy downpour—much less friendly and fat, and much more harsh and driving. Also a little sideways, thanks to the wind off the ocean. Chuck swore, and scurried down the slope of the beach toward Michael's house.

The orange paint practically glowed in the strangely dank lighting, and Chuck was reminded of both a fluorescent construction sign and a California poppy, diluted with cream.

He almost trampled some lavender on his way to the front door. It rustled around his legs and he hopped over a clump sprouting from between the gravel making up the walkway. He knocked on the white door hard enough to hurt his knuckles. The rain, at that point, had soaked his back and hair.

For a few minutes, no one answered, but just when Chuck began to think he'd be left on the doorstep in the pouring rain, Michael peeked out.

When he saw Chuck, Michael smiled. If a very slight curvature of the mouth can truly be called a smile. "Mr. Shurley," he stepped back and pulled the door further open. "Please, come in."

Chuck stepped in, a little nervously. "I brought your jacket. It's in my bag." He noticed Michael wore no shoes, but blue and white striped socks covered his feet. His pants weren't rolled up, though the long sleeves of his thermal shirt were—up to the elbows. Chuck glanced down at his feet. "Should I—" A pause. "Should I take my shoes off? I mean, they're all muddy." He looked back up at Michael, who seemed at least somewhat amused.

"Take them off." Michael backed away. "And take off your coat. We'll put them in front of the fire to dry." He turned to the fireplace—little warm flames already popped in the grate, and a kettle hung over them.

Chuck followed Michael, shoes in hand. "That's pretty old fashioned." He nodded at the kettle, as it began to whistle.

"Hm?" Michael glanced to the fire. "Ah, yes. Yes, I'm fond of more... antiquated... things." He stuck his hand in an oven mitt—navy blue with a white anchor emblazoned on the back—and took the kettle off the fire. He sat it on a cast iron trivet on a small wooden table beside the couch.

"So you really _are_ a hipster." Chuck stripped down to his t-shirt.

Michael rolled his eyes and took Chuck's jacket from him. "Perhaps." He laid it out on the hearth, not near enough to the heat that it would catch fire. He set Chuck's sneakers a little closer. "Anyhow," He moved toward his tall bookshelf and flipped the record sitting on its turntable. "How was your day? You look like a drowned mouse."

"Isn't it supposed to be 'drowned rat'?"

Michael laughed quietly and turned to face Chuck once more, as quiet music filled the room. "I think you're more of a little brown mouse than a big rat. You're all jumpy and small." He made a round shape with his hands, as if to demonstrate the diminutiveness of a mouse. He smiled.

"I'm not a mouse." Chuck pulled a face and set his bag down beside the couch, unstrapping the flap and dragging Michael's jacket from its depths. He shook it out, frowning at the creases it had sustained from being rolled into a ball and shoved into a messenger bag. It continued to be wrinkly at him. "Sorry it's all messed up." He held it out.

With a soft noise, in-between a laugh and a sigh, Michael reached for it. He draped it over the back of the couch and said, quietly, "It's just a work jacket. I don't mind if it's a little rumpled." He moved around the far side of the couch and sat down on the cushions. The springs—it was an old couch—creaked when he moved. He patted the space beside him. "Sit down. Relax." His eyes reflected the light from the fire and turned a little golden with it. He turned his attention to the kettle, still steaming on the side table. Briefly excused himself, and was back within a few seconds carrying a bone china tea set, a little tin, and some milk, and went about actually making tea—loose leaf and everything.

Chuck watched him, curiously. "Pretty fancy," he muttered.

"Hm?" Michael glanced up at him, half-distracted with his task. "Oh. Yes. It was my mother's." Rather than return the kettle to the fire he just set it nearby, on the hearth, which was probably a terribly uncouth thing to do but he didn't seem to care. He just covered the teapot with a hand-knit cozy and sat down again. "She always drank tea, three times a day. I got into the habit when I was a teenager and she showed me how to make it 'proper.'" He shook his head. "After our dad left, though... She stopped."

"Oh." Chuck frowned to himself, feeling as if maybe Michael hadn't meant to be quite so open. "I'm sorry about that. Um—do you have siblings? Since you said, 'our' and not 'my,' I mean." He twiddled his thumbs in his lap. Before Michael replied, he murmured, "I'm sorry. That's none of my business."

Michael shook his head again, but in a more amused way. "I don't mind, really." He smiled at Chuck, and leaned back against the couch, closing his eyes. "I have a few older brothers, an ex-brother in law, and a lot of cousins." He gave a smooth shrug. "What about you?"

"No." Chuck looked down at his hands in his lap, and made himself stop fiddling with his fingers. "Just me and my dad for as long as I can remember."

"No mom?"

Chuck shrugged noncommittally. "I don't remember her. Dad never really talks about her, ever. All I know is she left a long time ago—maybe she died, or maybe she didn't want to be a mom... Maybe they got divorced when I was a baby. I don't know. But I'm fine with my dad, and sometimes he had help, when he occasionally met decent men." He laughed quietly, and stretched his legs out.

Michael hummed thoughtfully. "I see."

Feeling a little nervous, suddenly, Chuck hunched his shoulders. He watched Michael, who leaned away and poured milk into the teacups, before uncovering the teapot and pouring tea into both of the little white cups. He handed one, steaming, to Chuck. Chuck held the saucer as steady as he could in one hand, and the cup in the other. He felt as though, any second, the two might clatter together like in movies when a character is frightened. They didn't, though. He poked at the tea with the tip of his tongue, and winced. Hot. Right. Better to wait for the tea to cool a little bit.

"How are you doing, by the way?" Michael seemed not to mind the scalding heat of his own tea, as he sipped at it. "With the unpacking, and writing..." An 'et cetera' seemed to be implied as he trailed off.

The sofa squeaked, as Chuck shifted. He breathed in the steam from his tea. "Um... book's doing okay." He shrugged and dared to take a small sip from his cup. Grimaced. He didn't really like tea much, even with milk. "I wrote today, a bit."

"Really?" Michael seemed intrigued. He scratched the tip of his nose, and looked at Chuck. "What about?"

Another shrug, and Chuck set his tea, very carefully, on the floor near his feet. He made a little thoughtful noise in his throat. "Well, there's a snake. Her name is Clementine, and she doesn't have any friends... 'cause everyone's scared of her, you know?" He scratched at his thin beard. "She's a snake! With fangs, and venom, and all that stuff that makes snakes scary, right? Except she's only a little garden snake, so she's really harmless." He let out a huff, picking at the hem of his shirt.

Michael, whose attention was focused solely on Chuck, tilted his head. He blinked, and asked, "What happens?"

"Hm?" Chuck rubbed his face. "Oh, I'm not 100% sure yet, but I think she'll make friends with someone. I mean, it's not quite as simple as that—it's supposed to be a longer story. You know, elementary level chapter book." He met Michael's eyes, with half of a smile. "My editor'll probably start bothering me about it soon, though, so I'll tell you then."

"Okay." Michael smiled.

They fell into an easy silence, punctuated occasionally by the snap of the fire or the clink of teacup against saucer, filled out with the sound of the rain against the windows. It was warm, and cozy—maybe a little drafty, with how open Michael's living room was, but the fire put out enough heat that it became a non-issue. Chuck found himself drifting, snug and sleepy. He vaguely remembered being laid down on the couch and covered with a blanket, but it was all a little fuzzy.

He woke in semi-darkness, wrapped up in a soft quilt. The fire flickered low and outside, the rain seemed to beat even harder against everything. The sound of the waves, and the rain against the glass, and the wind as well, might have been what woke him. He looked around. An embroidery hoop lay abandoned on the floor near a little basket, but Michael was nowhere in sight. Chuck sat up, drawing the blanket a little closer about his shoulders. The air was much colder now that the fire had gone out, and it smelled a little like fish and lemons.

Just when he began to think maybe Michael had left, a tall and narrow wooden door opened up across the room, and Michael appeared. Chuck glanced what must have been a kitchen just before the door swung shut.

"Your hair is sticking up." Michael adjusted his hold on the two plates he carried. "And it's seven o'clock, so I made dinner."

Chuck's stomach chose that moment to growl very loudly, and he blushed, ducking his head. "You shouldn't have—I mean..." He ran his hand through his hair. "Thank you?"

"You're welcome." Michael held out a plate—salmon and rice. Very simple. He sat on the floor in front of the couch, and said, "You're not allowed to leave until the weather calms down."

Chuck frowned. "I'm a grown-up! It's only a few blocks. I won't die if I try to walk home in the rain."

"No, but the wind might blow you away." Mischief glittered in Michael's eyes, as his lips curved into that now-familiar secretive smile. "And where would you be, then? Probably in California."

Rather than respond to Michael's teasing, Chuck began to eat. It was good. Not overdone, or undercooked. A little bland—but only a little bit, and Chuck figured that was just because he was used to eating food with way too much salt. He ate quickly, and felt a little awkward when he sat with an empty plate while Michael was barely halfway finished. He turned the fork—silvery and thin—around in his hand. Not actually silver. Stainless steel, like most utensils. It was embossed with a nice sunflower pattern on the end of the handle. He rand his thumb over it.

When Chuck looked up from fiddling with the fork, he met with the sight of Michael staring at him, amused and silent.

"What?" Chuck couldn't help but grin, as his face flushed.

Michael shook his head, still smiling that Archaic smile of his. "Nothing."

"What!" Chuck laughed, and set his fork on his plate. "You can't just stare at me like that and say it's nothing! Is there something on my face? Did I do something silly?" He was grinning at that point, pink in the face and very warm all over.

"You were just very engrossed in that fork." Michael leaned back on his hands, setting his nearly-empty plate on the floor beside his knee. He raised his eyebrows. "Is it a fascinating fork?"

Chuck snorted, and settled with his elbows on his knees, hands hanging between. "The most fascinating fork I've ever seen." He glanced at Michael, and mirrored his expression. Laced his fingers together and tilted his head to the side. "It's not the only fascinating thing I've seen today, though." He tried to keep a straight face, but almost broke out into laughter. He held it in until Michael actually _grinned_ and ducked his head, going red.

"Did I make you smile?" Chuck laughed out loud and straightened up. "A full smile? Amazing! This might be the first time I've seen you make a face that doesn't make you look like an old painting!"

Michael forced himself to frown, and glared completely unimpressively at Chuck. "I didn't smile. It was a muscle spasm." He looked away, and it was clear he couldn't hold the serious expression—his façade cracked to show his soft grin, as he stared into the fire.

Leaning back against the couch cushions, Chuck only said, "You're a terrible liar."

"Just because you saw something doesn't mean it happened."

Chuck laughed again. "I beg to differ!"

"You can't beg to differ." Michael finally turned his eyes back to Chuck—they were the color of ash in the dim light from the fire. "It wasn't a smile. Just a temporary loss of control." He lay down on the ground and crossed his hands over his stomach, closing his eyes. His shirt rode up to show the thinnest sliver of skin. "I would never smile at something as ridiculous as your pickup lines. Except, perhaps, condescendingly."

"I still disagree."

Michael scoffed. "Agree to disagree, then."

"Fine." Chuck poked him with his toes. Michael twitched, so Chuck poked him again, right along the side of his ribcage. Michael cracked one eye open and swatted at Chuck's foot with an unconvincing glare. He ended up just settling his hand loosely about Chuck's ankle, eyes closed once more. Chuck didn't try to free his foot.

The rain continued to pound down outside—if anything it got stronger.

After a few minutes of silence, Chuck opened his mouth again. "I don't think the storm is gonna let up anytime soon."

For a moment Michael said nothing, and Chuck wondered if he'd fallen asleep (with his hand still wrapped around Chuck's ankle) but then he spoke. "The ocean is welcoming you with a freak summer storm." Almost immediately after he finished his sentence, the entire house lit up white with a flash of lightning.

Michael lifted his head and narrowed his eyes at the window. Thunder boomed not three seconds later, and the glass rattled. The wind picked up enough to howl in the chimney, and the sound of the rain increased even more. He muttered, "If the house floods I'm suing someone."

"Flood—does your house usually flood when it rains?"

Michael glanced at Chuck before closing his eyes again. He tightened his grip on Chuck's leg. "Not usually. Never, in fact. I just felt I ought to say that, just in case someone up there decided they'd like to have a little fun with the water."

Chuck let out a disbelieving little snort. "I see."

"So..."

Chuck leaned forward. "Yes?"

"You realize you're going to stay overnight, right?"

"Says who?" Chuck shot Michael a cross expression, but then he smiled. "The weather's not that bad."

As if to prove him wrong, another bolt of lightning flashed, and something clattered against the side of the house in a violent gust of wind. Michael raised one eyebrow and smirked. "Says I. And the weather that is, in fact, awful." He sat up, finally moving his hand away from Chuck's ankle, and rolled to his feet. "And I don't want you to get hit by a car or slip and crack your skull open or get washed away." He paused, hands on his hips. "What if there's a tsunami?"

"Well," Chuck looked up at Michael. "Then we would both die."

Michael shook his head. "In that case, would you rather die with a handsome young man, or all alone in your duplex?"

Chuck pretended to think for a moment. "You have a point, there."

"So you agree—I'm handsome."

"Handsome? Maybe." Chuck grinned, and hauled himself to his feet. He shrugged. "You're definitely young."

The wind rattled louder, with the thunder. Out the window the rain went sideways.

Michael stretched his hands over his head and grimaced as his back popped. He stooped in front of the fireplace and banked the fire, shutting the glass doors before he turned back to Chuck. "Since I work in the morning, I'm going to bed now. You can sleep on the couch, though I wouldn't recommend it. I've got a guest room but it's not furnished. Just a broken dresser and a bedframe." He crossed his arms. "So really, your options are... couch, wood floor, or my bed."

"Your bed—like... sharing?" Chuck shoved his hands in his pockets and tried not to neither meet nor avoid Michael's eyes.

"Yes." Michael crouched briefly, to retrieve his plate, and grabbed Chuck's from the couch as well. On his way to the kitchen, he said, "My bed is huge. So you don't need to worry about... I don't know... me accidentally crushing you in my sleep."

Chuck lingered by the fireplace. "Would you?" he called. "Accidentally crush me in your sleep, I mean."

Michael waited to reply until he'd reemerged from the kitchen. "No, I wouldn't." He moved toward the stairs—Chuck hadn't noticed them, buried as they were in shadows and books—and beckoned Chuck toward him. "I'm a very careful sleeper."

"Careful? Like, what? You wear protection in your sleep?" Chuck paused. "That came out wrong."

"It really did." Michael glanced over his shoulder as he crested the steps. He nodded toward the right, and disappeared into the darkness of the second floor.

Tentatively, Chuck followed him. A light flicked on at the end of the hallway, and Michael slipped through a doorway. Chuck went after him, and found himself in a spacious bedroom lit by several bare bulbs hung from the ceiling. The floor was a light wood, and the walls as well. Though the floor, at least, had been stained a little, and looked smoother than the walls. One wide bay window was set into the far wall, and against the perpendicular wall was a bed—broad, sat on a wrought iron frame, covered with navy blue sheets and topped with two cream-colored pillows. Neat. Pristine, even.

Through [the sheer curtains, lightning occasionally lit the room even brighter.

Chuck poked around. A walk-in closet occupied the end of the room across from the bed. He looked up, and noticed that a few large windows took up the space beneath the ceiling. Chuck wondered if the room had once been part of some studio. It certainly felt that way, with the high ceiling and pale woods and bright lighting. A studio that had been transformed into a bedroom, added onto, polished, but left a little bit rough around the edges. Like a gem with an imperfection.

"This is really nice." Chuck wandered toward the bay window, at the head of the bed. He poked his head between the curtains and looked out at the twisting trees and diagonal sleet. "Your whole house is really nice, actually."

"Thank you."

Chuck glanced around—Michael stood near the closet, and was in the middle of pulling off his shirt. Chuck looked away again, quickly, blushing. He focused his attention on a dark wooden crucifix hanging just beside the window, along with a sprig of dried lavender. Moved on past that. Every few feet hung a photograph framed in something made to look like cast iron. Photos of trees and waterfalls and the ocean and abandoned houses.

It was all very minimal and pleasing.

"You can borrow something to sleep in."

Chuck turned, at the sound of Michael's voice. He opened his mouth, and floundered. Michael stood in a black wife-beater and slightly loose, dark gray flannel pants. Suffice it to say, the outfit flattered his form.

Chuck cleared his throat. "Uh—if you have anything that would fit me, that'd be great."

Michael nodded and turned back to his closet. He rummaged around through a few neatly folded piles of clothes on a knee level shelf. In doing so, he bent over and his shirt rode up, revealing the edge of some kind of tattoo. Chuck chose not to think about it, lest he melt into a puddle of goo then and there.

"Here we go!" Michael came away with a pair of white and blue plaid pants and a matching shirt. "I've owned these since high school. I'm not sure why I still have them, but they should fit you perfect." He padded over to Chuck, bare feet silent on the wood floor, and handed the pajamas to Chuck.

"Thanks." Chuck stood awkwardly in the middle of the bedroom. After a few seconds of hesitation, he asked, "Where's your bathroom?"

Michael gestured toward the door. "Go back toward the stairs, and it's the door right by the landing, with the photo of a mountain hanging on it."

Chuck hurried away to the bathroom to change and pee.

He stared at himself in the oval-shaped mirror for a while, ignoring the chill of the tiles against his feet. There were bags under his eyes. He ran a hand over his beard, and wondered if the scruffy hobo look suited him or if it might be getting a little out of hand. Well, it wasn't as though he could do anything about it in Michael's house, in any case. He rubbed at his eyes with a sigh and left the bathroom, clothes in hand. The floorboards creaked.

As he opened his mouth to ask a question, lightning flashed and thunder followed in the split second afterward, so loud that the whole house shook. The lights flickered.

Chuck stood very still in the middle of the bedroom. He cleared his throat. "Um—" He hugged his folded clothes to his chest. "If I accidentally kick you in my sleep will you throw me out into the storm?"

Snorting, Michael walked past Chuck and flicked the light switch, and the string lights edging the ceiling popped out. Shadows draped themselves across the room. "I don't care if you kick me." As Michael walked past again, back toward the bed, Chuck could have sworn he felt the other man's hand brush briefly over his arm, but couldn't be entirely sure.

He followed Michael's silhouette to the bed.

Stumbled, when lightning turned everything stark and pale again. He blinked the afterimage away and found himself unable to see much at all. He set his clothes on the wooden chest at the foot of the bed and nearly fell onto the mattress—clambered on and almost put his hand in a very awkward place as he crawled up the sheets. Slowly, he began to be able to see more in the shadows. As he lay down, he could make out the shape of Michael's profile in the dim, watery light filtering through the windows. But then another bright burst of light filled the room and he was blinded once again, while the windows rattled.

"I've never heard a storm this close."

Michael shifted beside him and murmured, "Neither have I."

Chuck nodded. "It's a little scary."

"It is."

"But I kinda like it."

"Yes."

Chuck closed his eyes.

The sound of Michael's breathing, the subtle smell of lemons, and the drum of the rain, and even the frequent grumble of thunder, lulled him to sleep.

* * *

In the morning, the weather had died down. Sunlight sifted into the room through the windows near the ceiling, and streamed through the sheer curtains of the bay window. It lit everything with a soft golden color. A bar of it fell across Michael's face, as the sun rose higher, and he frowned. He pulled himself up onto his elbows and reached through the iron bars of the headboard to part the curtains and peer out the window. Cloudless sky, with the rising sun dying the edges orange, pink and yellow. The sand and sidewalk were dark with the rain from the night before.

He let the curtain fall back in place, and lay back down. For once, he wished he'd invested in window coverings a little heavier than gauze.

Chuck—still asleep—shifted toward him, with a quiet little sigh. Michael moved to give him more space, but Chuck sort of trailed after him with a tiny frown set on his face, and he grabbed Michael's arm. Michael smiled. He relaxed where he lay, with the sun streaming through the windows, and let Chuck cling to him.

A quick glance at his watch (on the nightstand) confirmed it was only half-past five in the morning. He opened the drawer of the nightstand and rummaged blindly through it for his rosary. He was awake already anyway, so he figured he might as well say his prayers.

With his eyes closed, counting the beads between his fingers and mouthing the words to himself, he didn't notice Chuck wake up.

It wasn't until he opened his eyes to find Chuck staring at him that he realized.

"Good morning," he murmured.

Chuck grimaced and shut his eyes. "It's too early." He let go of Michael's arm and rolled onto his back. "Why don't you have curtains?"

"Well," Michael set his rosary aside. "I normally wake with the sun. It's a healthy habit to keep, and most days I need to be up early for class anyway."

"But what about the weekends?"

"I usually fish in the mornings and go to the farmers' market in the afternoon." Michael sat up, stretching his arms over his head. Something popped, and he grunted and rolled his shoulder. Returned his attention to Chuck, who unabashedly stared at him from where he lay. Michael raised an eyebrow. "Enjoying the view?"

Chuck grinned. "Definitely."

"You're bold." Michael stared back. "Are you ever going to make an effort to deny your attraction to me, or do you enjoy broadcasting it?"

"What can I say—I'm very confident in my sexuality." Chuck looked away, then. "About the only thing I'm ever confident in, really." He frowned at the ceiling for a few seconds, then shrugged. "And I mean... I like to let people know if I'm interested—I don't want... misunderstandings. You know? I try to make it pretty black and white with people, because I don't want to be accused of—of leading someone on, or of anything else. I guess?" He sighed.

Michael nodded. "That's admirable."

"Admirable—why do you always call me that? I'm not—I'm just... I'm just this guy, you know?"

"I disagree." Michael moved to get out of bed, tossing the blankets aside. He adjusted his tank top, shook his arms out, and started to stretch. In between various contortions of his arms, he said, "I think that anyone who is able to do what they love is admirable." He smiled. "And I think you're admirable for being able to create things." He planted his hands on his hips and focused on Chuck, expression thoughtful. "And I think it's admirable that you're so clear about what you feel."

Chuck blushed and ducked his head, burying his face in one of Michael's pillows. He mumbled something unintelligible, realized he couldn't be heard through several layers of fabric and stuffing, and raised his head to say, "Your existence is unfair."

"What on earth are you talking about?" Michael bent down to touch his toes.

Chuck definitely did not (no way, no how) stare at Michael's butt while he said, "I'm talking about the fact that you're basically the perfect catch." He noticed a few lines of that tattoo again, in the sliver of open space between the hem of Michael's shirt and the waistband of his briefs. He wondered what it might be. "I mean, you're cute _and_ you have a nice body _and_ you're sweet!"

"You think I'm sweet?"

Chuck blinked. He frowned. "Well, yeah." He sat up, kicking off the blankets. "The kids seem to like you a lot, and you shared your lunch with me. And you walked with me to the store, and let me borrow your jacket, and you let me stay here through the storm, and just... I think you're really sweet. You know? Really polite and kind. Most twenty-something year olds I meet with bodies like yours are like... douchebags in snapbacks." He bit his lip, and avoided looking at Michael, fiddling with a loose thread on the cuff of his sleeve. "Pajamas too. You let me borrow these." He raised his arm.

Michael crossed his arms and watched Chuck. "Well," he said. "You're the first, to be honest."

"What?"

"Most people are either afraid of me, or they think I'm frigid." Michael huffed out a small breath and looked down at the floorboards beneath his feet. "I overhear things. Sarah thinks I'm a 'hard-ass,' and Greg thinks I'm pretentious. They'd never say that to my face, of course. They're nice people." He rubbed his face and sighed. "It's just difficult to make friends in a small place like this, when everyone else knows one another already, and you're a stranger."

Chuck drew his knees up and folded his arms across them. He leaned his cheek against his arms. "They just don't know how to deal with different people, I guess." He wiggled his toes. "So... you're not from here, either?"

Michael moved toward his closet. Over his shoulder, he said, "I moved here two years ago. I'm from the east coast, originally." He disappeared through the sliding paper door, and reemerged just a few seconds later with an armful of clothes. "Florida." He pulled his wifebeater off with one hand and dropped it onto the floor at his feet.

"Oh—that's... um." Chuck cleared his throat. He looked away, to the window. At anything other than Michael's very bare torso.

Michael snorted and pulled on a plain, tight t-shirt. "Sorry, I wasn't thinking." He paused for a moment before saying, "Close your eyes." He changed out of his pajama pants into pair of worn jeans, and pulled on some wool socks as well. Straightened up and planted his hands on his hips. "You can look now."

Chuck let his eyes wander over Michael, a little pink in the face. "I'm not... I'm not embarrassed, you know. I was just. Surprised." He coughed, lightly. "Also, do you... Do you work out?"

"I don't work out." Michael walked toward the door. "I just spend a lot of my free time carrying a boat to and from the water."

"Wow. Okay. Should I hate you for that?"

"Please don't." Michael stepped into the hall. "Now, if you want to eat breakfast, I can make you something. But you have to come downstairs within the next ten minutes or I'll leave you all alone in my kitchen."

"Oh—I'm coming, for sure." Chuck clambered out of the bed and nearly tripped on his own feet in his hurry to follow Michael downstairs.

* * *

Chuck double-checked to make sure he had everything—he'd eaten breakfast with Michael, who had then left to go fishing. He'd used Michael's shower, gotten dressed. Now, he patted himself down and double-checked his messenger bag to ensure he hadn't forgot anything. Everything seemed to be in its proper place though, so he shouldered his bag and slipped out the front door, shutting it quietly behind him. (Michael had told him not to bother locking it, so he didn't.)

The gravel pathway crunched under his sneakers, and the lavender rustled around his knees.

Eight in the morning, with fresh air and a clear sky, and birds chirping merrily.

He would do anything to get back in bed as soon as physically possible.

He had some trouble getting the door open—the lock stuck for a moment—but after a brief struggle, Chuck managed to kick open the door. He almost dropped his bag on the floor but at the last second he remembered it held his computer, so he lowered it gently instead, and kicked his shoes off. Made his way to his bedroom and stripped down to his underwear before crawling into bed.

It was pleasantly warm, and with the curtains drawn only a little bit of sunlight made it into the room—lent it a soft golden glow. Chuck lay half underneath the sheets, staring up at the ceiling. In the dim light, he could see faces and shapes in the stucco. He amused himself for a few minutes by making up stories about the people he picked out in the shadows on the ceiling. But the little game grew old fairly quickly, and he sighed to himself as he lay there.

He didn't think he'd be falling asleep any time soon.

All he could think about was Michael's small smile—the one that seemed to take his face by surprise, when it made his eyes squint—and also his butt, but that was kind of beside the point.

"Chuck," he muttered to himself. "You're thirty-seven years old." He scowled at the ceiling. "Talking to yourself in bed at eight in the morning, trying to distract yourself from your stupid massive crush on a man at least ten years younger than you. Who you barely know." He rolled onto his stomach and hugged his pillow, rubbing his stubbly cheek against the coolness of the fabric. "Get it together."

Easier said than done, of course.

His only response to his own question was to bury his face in his pillow with a groan. He wanted to sleep. He wanted someone to kiss him. He wanted _Michael_ to kiss him, specifically, but that was just ridiculous. He took a deep breath that smelled like fabric softener and dust. If he were honest, he wanted Michael to do a lot of things with him—to him. Or anyone, really. But Michael especially.

Wanted to know what his hands felt like. Probably warm, and a little calloused. His lips were probably similarly warm. Maybe soft? Chuck wanted to know if that were true—"Are Michael's lips soft?" He hoped so. Not that he'd get to know unless Michael kissed him or if he himself got very drunk or very bold. (Flirting was one thing. Actually doing anything was a whole other thing.)

Besides that, Chuck wanted... Well. He just _wanted_. It'd been a while since he got any action, what with deciding to move out to the coast, and actually moving, and now living in a new town where he knew no one and drank alone while he wrote. How long had it been...? He counted on his fingers.

Two months since he'd last had sex with anyone, man or woman. Six since he'd had sex with someone he cared about, or even _knew_.

"Fuck."

And starting out his morning waking up next to a slab of beef had not helped his situation. Especially when Michael took his shirt off. Chuck passed it off relatively fine (not really) but now, alone in his bed...

The man had a six-pack for Christ's sake. Chuck could probably do his laundry on those abs. And the arms... And everything else.

"Jesus Christ." Chuck glared into his pillow. "Shut up, brain. I'm trying to sleep."

But he couldn't help thinking about Michael. And Michael's body. And his smile. And his butt. Especially his butt. And the fact that Michael could probably pick Chuck up and carry him over his shoulder. And... other stuff. Dirty stuff. Involving, preferably, biting. Not hard biting, though—just nips. Maybe hard enough to leave a mark. He'd like that... if Michael marked him up a little. A bit of manhandling generally suited Chuck pretty well.

He squeezed his eyes shut and sighed.

He felt all wound up and he needed to relax, somehow, but...

"All my shit's in a box." By 'all my shit' he really meant all his porn—an even mix of girly mags and pictures of shirtless firemen torn from calendars—and the one tiny vibrator he owned, but that was just specifics.

Not that he _needed_ all that stuff.

He could just... slide his hand down until his fingers slipped under the waistband of his underwear.

His breath hitched—his fingers were colder than he'd realized—and he frowned just a bit. Kicked the sheets completely off and rolled onto his back again, shoving his boxers down to his knees. He felt awkward, despite being alone (or maybe _because_ he was alone), so he closed his eyes. Bared his neck to the empty air. Kept his fingers loose and his movements slow. Swallowed back a soft noise, here and there—it wouldn't do to have the neighbors hear him.

The temperature outside had risen enough to affect the interior of the duplex, so he found himself sweating a little despite hardly moving. His face felt hot, too, and he imagined he was probably very red from his chest to his forehead.

Unbidden, an image of Michael, almost completely in the nude, popped into Chuck's head.

"Shit." He slung his free arm across his face, toes curling. His thoughts strayed to Michael's handsome face and smooth skin and well-muscled frame, and he couldn't help but moan. Some half-formed daydream of Michael pinning him down, and that was it. He was gone. Only hoped the neighbors didn't hear, because he forgot to be quiet and his natural state tended toward "way too noisy."

He lay in bed for a while, flushed and embarrassed, before finally getting up and heading to the bathroom to clean himself up. He found his dressing robe in his pile of dirty laundry just inside the bathroom and pulled that on, and went back to bed in nothing else.

He actually fell asleep, then, to the sound of birdsong.

* * *

"Class is dismissed. Have a good summer, children."

The first graders ran shrieking from the classroom the second Michael finished his sentence. He shook his head, smiling to himself as he sat down at his desk. School was out, but he still had a little bit of work to do. Namely, cleaning. The only employees, after all, were Greg, Sarah and himself, and a part-time principal of sorts who doubled as a counselor. Which left the cleaning to the teachers. Luckily, the kids hadn't left much more than a bit of loose paper and crumbs.

Michael cleared his desk and packed away all of his belongings into his bag. He wiped off the chalkboard and vacuumed the floor. Peeled the stickers off of each little desk and set to scrubbing them down with a bucket of water and a bottle of dish soap he kept on the highest shelf in the closet. Made sure all trash was in the garbage can, and took that outside to the dumpster. Any little lost items he locked in the closet, for students to find next year—or, if he got a call from a parent, for him to retrieve for them.

He cleaned the windows too, and one of the two bathrooms in the schoolhouse.

Greg had left already, and Sarah was just locking her room up as he headed for his classroom—they always cleaned faster than him. Maybe he was just slow.

"Have a nice summer, Sarah." Michael nodded at her, as he backed into his room.

She paused at the front doors. Gave him a rather tight smile and said, "You too, Mr. Milton." She turned around and nearly ran straight into Chuck—five inches taller than him in her heels. She excused herself and inched around him, leaving the building.

Michael frowned. "Chuck? What are you doing here?" He stepped into his classroom, indicating that Chuck should follow him.

"Oh, I was uh—I just happened to be in the area." Chuck scurried after him, careful not to drop the brown paper bag in his arms. "Just. Walking by. Saw the kids leaving and chanting 'summertime' over and over, so I thought... You know, I thought I'd drop in. Say hi."

"Uh-huh." Michael raised his eyebrows. He went to the windows and locked each securely. He bent down to grab his bucket, with the sponge and the dish soap. "So you just... happened to be walking by Milligan's, all the way across town, and then you just happened to walk by the school?" He spoke over his shoulder as he scrubbed the windows.

Chuck's face scrunched up. "Well, when you put it like that it just sounds silly."

Michael chuckled. "It does."

"Okay," Chuck shrugged and sat on the edge of a desk. He looked down at the bag in his hands. "So maybe I bought donuts from—Milligan's? Yeah. That place. Maybe I was curious, and then I thought to myself... 'You know, I have a lot of donuts. I should see if Michael wants some.'" He scratched his nose. "Do you... want one?"

Michael shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I can't." He dropped the sponge into the bucket and turned around, crossing his arms. "I'm sucrose intolerant. I can't really eat a lot of sugary foods."

Chuck looked like he might drop unconscious on the spot at the very _idea_ of not being able to eat sugary foods. His forehead crinkled, and he asked, "Not even donuts?"

"Not even donuts."

"Oh." Chuck scratched the back of his neck. A light pink tint spread across his face as he looked down at his feet, and he cleared his throat, embarrassed. He fiddled with the edge of the paper bag. His disappointment showed clearly through his slouching posture, and he kept his eyes downturned. "Sorry. I uh—I should have asked... Sorry."

Michael frowned. "Hey," He walked over, drying his hands on a paint-stained towel, and stopped directly in front of Chuck. "You didn't know." He reached a hand out—briefly stilled as if unsure what to do. He settled on putting his hand on Chuck's shoulder. "If you really want to share, I'll eat one. I won't _die_ if I eat a single donut." He leaned down, to catch Chuck's eye. When Chuck finally met his eyes, he smiled and said, "I promise."

"Are you sure?"

"Am I sure I won't die?" Michael smirked.

Chuck rolled his eyes. "No, you jerk." He huffed, and glanced down at his paper bag. "I mean... I don't wanna make you eat something that'll make you sick."

"Well," Michael tugged Chuck to his feet. He let his hand linger maybe a second too long on Chuck's arm, and stood a little too close, but neither of them cared to move. "How's this: I'll eat half of one if you agree to go on a picnic with me."

Chuck pretended to think for about half a second before grinning and saying, "I'll definitely go on a picnic with you. You don't even need to eat a donut."

"Good." Michael stepped back. "Did you take your bike, or did you walk?"

"I took the bus."

Michael nodded, and grabbed his bag from beside the desk. "You can ride on the back of my bicycle, then." He beckoned toward the door, and locked the door to his room behind them. He locked the front doors to the school as well, when they stepped out into the sunlight, and led Chuck to where he had parked his bike.

Chuck settled backwards on the bicycle's rear rack, and held his paper bag of donuts in his lap as Michael took off. He wobbled a little, but he'd grown up riding on the back of his dad's bike so it was just a matter of remembering how to stay balanced. He even leaned back a little against Michael. Michael didn't seem to notice.

As they rode down the road, the breeze cooled the sweat on Chuck's skin, from the hot sun, and he said, "I feel like I'm in high school again, if high school was a movie from the Eighties!" He laughed and clutched his bag tighter.

Michael snorted. "You're certainly old enough for your high school life to be a movie from the 1980's."

"Excuse me! Are you calling me old?! I'm only thirty-seven!"

A quiet laugh, and Michael turned a corner sharp enough to nearly send Chuck flying—Chuck grabbed at the freight rack with one hand and practically crushed his donuts. He huffed and elbowed Michael (gently.)

Michael slowed a little bit.

He turned onto a different street. Trees lined the sidewalk and spread their branches, wide and arching, so that sunlight filtered in patches through their green leaves. Chuck closed his eyes and leaned more heavily against Michael. He focused on the whir of the bike's wheels, and the peeping of sparrows, and the way the dappled sunlight passed over his eyelids and lit them up before falling into shadow again.

The sound of the ocean began to fill the air, and the fresh salt smell, too. Seagulls called from the sky.

Eventually, the bicycle rolled to a stop, and Michael dismounted. Chuck hopped off, blinking at the bright reflection of the sun on the waves. He followed Michael to his house.

"Do you have any requests?" Michael pulled a few things out of his fridge before looking in the cabinets under the kitchen island and pulling out a wicker basket with a padded lid. "I bought groceries yesterday, so I have a lot to choose from." He smiled at Chuck.

Chuck shrugged and set his bag on the counter. "I'm fine with whatever." He scuffed his bare foot on the floor—both of their shoes were at the front door so they wouldn't track sand all over the living room. "As long as it's not tea."

"You don't like tea?"

"Not really." Chuck leaned his elbows on the granite countertop. "Anything watery doesn't appeal to me much."

Michael shook his head and set about making a couple of sandwiches. "Well, that means I don't have to waste my tea on you." He grinned, briefly, like a flash of sun from behind a cloud. "Although... I'll make you some chai, sometime. I can't drink it, but I like the smell, and even if you don't like regular tea you should like chai tea." He breathed out a soft laugh. "Even my little sister, who hates tea, loves chai.

"I'd like that."

Another smile.

Chuck liked it when Michael smiled like that. The weird half smile—the "Archaic" smile—was nice, but this smile... This smile was Chuck's favorite because it was warm and quick and happy and gentle. He wanted to make Michael smile like that all the time.

"What are you looking at?"

"What?" Chuck blinked. "Oh—I'm... just. You're cute when you smile."

Michael stilled. He seemed taken aback, and stared at Chuck. Finally, he looked away—out the window. "I—" He covered his mouth with one hand. "Thank you."

"Did I—are you blushing?!" Chuck laughed and bounced a little on his heels. When Michael shook his head, Chuck grinned wider and said, "You are! You're so adorable!"

Michael glowered at him. "I'm not—"

Chuck laughed again.

"I'm not!" Michael returned his attention to making their sandwiches. "I'm not blushing, and I am most certainly not _cute_." He glared daggers at the sourdough bread, pink in the face.

With an amused scoff, Chuck slumped against the counter. Didn't say anything. Instead, he watched the color fade from Michael's cheeks as he prepared their food. Watched the way his forehead wrinkled just a bit between his eyebrows, and the way his mouth tightened just a little, as he concentrated. The way he handled the knife like something delicate, though it was only a stainless steel butter knife. The way the muscles in his arm moved when he grabbed a sharper, heavier knife and cut through each sandwich diagonally.

Michael noticed him staring, but he kept quiet and shook his head.

They set out with the wicker basket full of food—salmon sandwiches made from leftover fish, salted tomatoes and cucumbers, some sliced watermelon, and more of the leftover salmon, all on ice.

Chuck almost forgot his donuts, but at the last minute he grabbed the bag, and ran after Michael outside. He nearly tripped trying to walk and put his sandals back on at the same time. Managed to keep upright, though. He followed Michael down the beach. Michael stopped, basket on his arm, and waited for Chuck to catch up with that half-smile on his face. He held his hand out.

"Shake?" Chuck frowned.

Michael rolled his eyes. "_Take_. "He grabbed Chuck's hand and tugged him along. Chuck stumbled, and he tightened his grip on Michael's hand, letting their fingers lace together as he walked along the sand like an ungainly duck. Squawked like one, too.

The sand began to be interspersed with thin grass, and lavender, and blanketflower. Michael led him into a little bower of a clearing, shaded by scraggly trees, soft and warm, and carpeted with a little layer of grass and dirt and sand. He set the basket down, and pulled out a quilt. Set it out on the ground, gesturing for Chuck to sit down.

So Chuck sat.

And Michael handed him some food.

They ate in silence, for the most part. At least until the sandwiches had gone. Eating cucumber slices with his fingers, though, Chuck spoke. "You know," He licked some salt from his thumb. "You really are cute. I wasn't just saying that to embarrass you or anything."

"Yeah?" Michael picked at a piece of fish. "I never thought you were anything but sincere, when you said it."

"Good."

"I still disagree with you, however."

Chuck sighed, and gave Michael a faux-glare. "You're wrong, then." He squinted at Michael.

"Or maybe you're just blind."

"What!" Chuck set his little salad (of sorts) on the blanket in front of him. "I'll just put on my glasses and prove you wrong!" He dug around in his pocket for his glasses—popped their case open and shoved them onto his face, and leveled an intense stare on Michael. He didn't say anything for a while. Just looked and looked.

Finally, he muttered, "Your eyes are gray."

Michael laughed.

"And I stand by what I said—" Chuck inched a little closer, and Michael sobered. "I think you're very cute. Um—I really do. Everything I say... It's true. You are cute and sweet and..." He paused, glancing down at the pattern of the quilt. "Sorry, I'm not very good at this."

The flowers and the leaves rustled in the breeze off the sea, and a seagull cried above. Michael didn't smile, but his expression was gentle, and he reached out to put his hand over Chuck's. "Are you trying to ask me out, Mr. Shurley?"

That playful tone and the warmth of his palm against Chuck's knuckles made Chuck's pulse stutter a little—or at least that's what it felt like to him. "Maybe." He looked down at their hands. "I—I'm not doing very well, though, am I?"

Michael leaned close and planted his lips on Chuck's cheek. He only pulled back a little bit, to say, "I think you got your point across."

Chuck adjusted his glasses, clearing his throat. He moved his hand, and wound his fingers together with Michael's, and gave him a crooked grin. "That's um—that's good. Good." He looked down at their joined hands and laughed. "I'm glad."

"Me too." Michael moved even closer. "You should finish eating." He let go of Chuck's hand, but wrapped his arm around his back instead and leaned a little bit against him. Nothing else. No more little kisses, or anything like that... But that was fine. Chuck relaxed against him as he ate, and didn't mind the extra body heat. He liked it. He liked... the situation. He liked feeling all warm and stabilized and cared for.

They ended up splitting a donut after all—Chuck didn't want Michael to eat it, if it would make him feel bad, but Michael insisted. "I'm feeling good today," he said. "A tiny bit should be fine."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure." Michael ate a few bites, despite Chuck's worrying, and when he remained intact he smiled. "I'm fine." He let Chuck eat the rest, though. Drank from a mason jar of water he'd brought along with the food, and propped his chin on Chuck's shoulder.

When Chuck decided he'd had enough, they packed everything away into the basket and left the clearing. The sun hung low and large in the sky (though sunset remained a few hours away, at least.) Michael carried the basket, and Chuck trailed behind him, clumsy in the sand. Michael slowed for him and held his hand out, and Chuck took it, and they walked back to Michael's house with their fingers entwined.

* * *

Lying in bed the next morning, Chuck called his dad. Just because. He opened with, "You're gonna make of me."

Immediately: "You asked out that boy, didn't you?"

Chuck rolled his eyes and sat up. "First of all, he's not a boy. I'm not some creepy old man. Second of all, I didn't actually ask him out, really." He kicked his blankets off, wiggling his toes, and picked at the hem of his boxers.

"But you're an item now?"

"You make it sound like... like we're both weird symbiotic little things that combined into one object."

His dad laughed. He asked, "But you _are_ together?"

"Um..." Chuck shrugged, then remembered that his dad couldn't see him. He chewed on his lip. "We held hands." He grinned. Picked at a loose thread on his blanket. "He kissed me on the cheek, and that's about it—Uh... I think..." He paused and tried to gather his words together. "It's nice." He left it at that. Simple and to the point. "It's nice to move so slowly."

"You met him less than a week ago."

Chuck scowled. "Shush! I mean—Like if you go in terms of counting dates, or something like that—like, say... Say the picnic we had was a first date, kind of. Although—he did kiss my hand when he came over for dinner on Friday but that's beside the point. The point is, if you count this picnic as a first date, and it was made up entirely of hand-holding and one single kiss on my face, then that's kind of a nice pace. I think so, at least." He lay back down and splayed his limbs out. "It's been a long time since I've been in any kind of relationship like that."

"I see. Well, as long as you're happy, I'm happy." Chuck's dad seemed to think for a moment. "How's the unpacking going?"

Groaning, Chuck rolled onto his stomach. "Awful." He rubbed at his eyes. "I've still got something like half of the kitchen and living room in boxes."

"Looks like your relationship isn't the only thing you're taking slow."

"Dad, shut up!"

Loud laughter, and then, "Are you sure you don't want me to come down there? Help you empty those boxes?"

Chuck sighed. "I'm sure. I'm a big boy. I can handle it. I'll try to finish... soon."

"Maybe your boyfriend can help you."

"He's not my boyfriend! He's just my... my friend... who's also male."

"Right. You're male friend who you also just happen to go on picnic dates with, and hold hands with on the beach, who kisses you." Chuck's dad snorted. "Anyway, go. Eat breakfast—and don't tell me you have, because I can tell you just woke up by the sound of your voice—and go unpack your kitchen."

Chuck rolled his eyes and hauled himself upright again. "You're such a _dad_. I'll talk to you later."

"Damn straight. Later, Chucky. Love ya, bud."

"'M not your bud, but I love you too, Dad."

Chuck stared at the wall. He really didn't want to unpack anymore boxes... but they took up so much space, and he probably needed the stuff in them... Maybe he'd eat some cereal and call Michael—wait, no, he didn't have Michael's number... He'd eat some cereal, then walk to Michael's house and see if he wouldn't mind helping out a little. Offer dinner or... cuddles... in exchange.

He hauled himself out of bed and set out to do his tasks.

The walk to Michael's house was pleasant, and the breeze off the ocean restless and cool. Chuck made his unsteady way across the sand. When he knocked, no one answered. And no one continued to answer. And so on for at least five minutes. He stood awkwardly on the doorstep and coughed to himself. Should have realized that just showing up at someone's house might not be the best idea. Just as he turned to leave, though, he heard a whistle, and whirled around.

Michael stood in the waves, pulling a white and red fourteen foot sailboat out of the waves. He waved his arm over his head.

Chuck waved back.

Eventually Michael hauled his boat up the beach and onto a trailer, and suddenly Chuck understood exactly why he was so built. Although...

"Isn't that bad for the boat?" Chuck knew nothing about boats, but he felt fairly certain you weren't meant to drag them across sand and gravel for several hundred feet and then shove them onto a trailer—there had to be actual procedures for boat storage.

Michael shrugged. "A little, but I keep her happy."

"Uh-huh." Chuck raised his eyebrows.

"Anyway," Michael crossed his arms, tilting his head curiously. "Did you need me?"

Chuck scratched the back of his neck, feeling a little awkward, suddenly. "I uh... Just wondered if you wouldn't mind helping me unpack? I mean—It was my dad's idea, and you don't have to—I just. I'll... make you dinner?" He scuffed his foot against the sand, focusing his attention on anything but Michael—he ended up staring at a broken shell in the sand.

"Sure," Michael's hand drifted briefly over Chuck's arm, and he squeezed his elbow before pulling back. "Let me just put away everything—you can wait in the living room, if you'd like." His eyes, all silver-blue in the sun, crinkled at the edges though he didn't smile with his mouth. Not noticeably. But his expression was soft and his touch was gentle when he reached out again and pushed a stray curl of hair from Chuck's face. "Don't fall asleep again though."

Chuck rolled his eyes and blushed and grinned. Caught Michael's hand in his own. "I won't." He held on to Michael's fingers for just a moment, and let him go. "Promise."

Michael shook his head, and then his mouth _did_ turn up at the edges—but the true smile remained primarily in his eyes, like always.

The front door creaked a little bit when Chuck opened it. He slipped out of his shoes, remembering the rule about tracking sand everywhere, and padded toward the couch on bare feet. The floorboards felt much colder than the sand outside, though not unpleasant. He settled on the sofa and stared at the dead fireplace with his hands folded in his lap. Glanced around the living room. Sure he'd been in it before, but it looked different in the bright sunlight of mid-morning, compared to a mid-afternoon storm's light. Looked warmer. Just about as rustic. He liked the rows and rows of books on shelves, and the slight worn feeling—like the house was an old antique that looked a little beat up but not in a crappy way—in an elegant, handmade way.

Lost in his thoughts, Chuck almost didn't hear Michael come into the house. But the door squeaked, and the floorboards made tiny little protests, and alerted Chuck to the other man's presence. He looked up and beamed at Michael, who smiled in that sort of startled, bashful way, with a tiny sigh almost like a laugh but not quite.

His arms were full, with a smallish cooler and some random articles of clothing. He carried them into the kitchen and left them on the island, turning back into the room, straightening his Henley. He stopped behind the couch and leaned over it, hands planted firmly on the back.

Chuck tilted his head back to look up at him.

Michael kissed his forehead upside-down—a reserved brush of lips on skin—and murmured, "I need to shower and change into something clean." He moved to pull away, but Chuck reached up and grabbed his face between his hands.

"No," Chuck turned and stood on his knees on the couch. He let his hands drop and kept a small amount of distance between their faces. He wasn't sure what would be considered appropriate versus unwelcome, so he played it safe. "You're just gonna get all sweaty and gross again, if you help me unpack. Just—just grab a change of clothes and bring it with you?" He laid his hand over Michael's, on the back of the couch.

Michael turned his own hand palm up and clasped Chuck's wrist. "Okay." He gave Chuck's arm a squeeze, and backed away. "I'll go get clothes, and then we head to your house."

"Okay."

Michael smiled again. A sudden burst of light between leaves. He patted Chuck's shoulder and went upstairs.

Chuck definitely did not stare at his ass while he walked up the steps.

* * *

"Wow."

Chuck grimaced. "I know, it's awful... I'm just—I hate unpacking, you know?"

"It took me two weeks to unpack all of my books." Michael shed his thin jacket and adjusted his suspenders (they were striped navy and white). He looked around the room. "I think we can manage this in a day. You've done all the hard work already, anyway." He walked past Chuck, briefly reaching out and patting his shoulder. To others, it might have seemed like a fairly distant gesture, but Chuck smiled at the soft familiarity of a simple touch.

He lingered in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen and watched Michael move around the room as if he wanted to map it out in his head. Michael glanced at him, and cracked a little smile. "Are you just going to stand there? Or will you show me what you want me to do?" He raised his eyebrows, slipping his hands into his pockets. He looked like he could be on the cover of GQ, if he slapped on a blazer and slicked his hair back.

Chuck blinked. "Oh—" He scratched at his jaw. "Um... That white one needs to go in the kitchen, but I can't move it." He cleared his throat. "It's heavy."

"I see." Michael seemed amused, though it was, as always, a little hard to tell.

"My dad carried it in for me and left it there."

Michael snorted. "Your dad, who's what... seventy?"

Chuck made an offended noise and crossed his arms. "How old do you think I am?! My dad's only fifty-eight!" He leaned on the doorframe more fully. Looked thoughtful, and bit his lip. Despite wanting to ask a question, he kept silent.

Until Michael planted his hands on his hips and said, "You can ask how old I am." He held one hand up. "Actually, don't bother. I'm twenty-five." He turned away, to the white box, and wrapped his arms around it. He lifted it in one heave, with a soft grunt, and mumbled, "How about you?" His forehead wrinkled and his arms strained as he made his way, slowly, toward Chuck.

"Um..." Chuck maybe stared a bit. "What?"

Michael rolled his eyes. He edged past Chuck, into the kitchen, and let the box thud onto the nearest flat surface—the dining table. The table creaked threateningly, but stayed standing. Michael took a moment to catch his breath. "What is in this box?"

"Uh... cast iron pans, and... and stuff."

Michael nodded. "Okay. And, I asked your age. But you seemed... distracted."

Chuck blushed, looking down at his feet. "I'm... late thirties."

Silence, and an amused stare, with one eyebrow raised.

"I—I'm thirty-eight."

Michael smiled. He tapped his finger against Chuck's waist, and leaned close. "That's not so old." He tugged on Chuck's belt loop before stepping away into the living room.

Chuck watched him, pink-faced, as he dragged a bookshelf against the wall. Hunched his shoulders and wished he could erase his blush. But it persisted. Probably because Michael's sleeves were rolled up to the elbow and he had really nice arms, and he just looked really, really good. All navy and white and sky blue making his eyes pop out as a bright silver. (Chuck noticed his suspenders actually matched his sneakers.)

"Mr. Shurley?"

Chuck jumped. "Um, yes?"

"Should I shelve these?" He gestured to the open box of books at his feet.

"Oh—yeah, sure. Just alphabetize them by author and title." Chuck backed into the kitchen, awkwardly. "I'll just unpack the pots and pans and... yeah."

"Alright." Michael turned away.

Chuck found his old, beat-up transistor radio on top of the fridge and plugged it in, turning it to an oldies station. They listened to Marvin Gaye and the Beatles, Elvis and The Supremes, while they emptied boxes. Occasionally Chuck embarrassed himself by saying something silly and flirtatious that mostly made him sound like a dumbass. But Michael seemed to enjoy his poor attempts at pick-up lines.

Upstairs wasn't much more organized. Michael put the bedframe together almost completely on his own, while Chuck pretended to be helpful but mostly just watched. Though he did microwave some leftover pasta for them to eat. He washed the dishes, after that, and when he came back upstairs Michael had already gotten much more done. Only a few boxes remained—Michael was reaching for a large green shoebox.

Chuck blanched. He'd been looking for that box but he absolutely did not want Michael to open it.

"I—uh, I can take that! Don't bother yourself, you can just take a break now or something!" He snatched the box from Michael's hands.

"We just took a break..."

Chuck nodded. "Right." He shoved the shoebox under his pillow. It wasn't well-hidden—not really hidden at all, in fact—but that didn't matter. "Well, um... In that case you can..." He cast around for something that needed doing. Caught on a plastic tub. "You can see what's in that tub." He pointed.

"...Okay." Michael shot him a bemused glance but moved toward the maroon Rubbermaid tub and pried it open. He sat on the floor beside it and pulled out some curtains, and various fabrics. Old clothes. A pillowcase with a hole in it. A bottle of Jack Daniels. "Why is there whiskey in your curtains?"

Chuck frowned. "You know, I'm not sure." He took the bottle from Michael and held it up to the sunlight streaming through the window. Gave a shrug and set it on top of the dresser before bending down to help Michael untangle the curtains.

They finished unpacking everything by dinnertime.

Michael used his shower, and changed into a pair of dark jeans and a soft-looking blue and green plaid shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows just as with his Henley. He sat on Chuck's couch—now centered nicely in the living room, facing the small television. He draped his arms over the back of the couch and closed his eyes, letting out a content sigh. His damp hair stuck to his forehead in places.

With a quiet huff, Chuck sat beside him. "What do you want to eat for dinner?" He looked at Michael curiously.

A shrug, and Michael murmured, "I'm willing to eat almost anything, right now." His mouth twisted. As if to emphasize his hunger, Michael's stomach chose that moment to gurgle. Chuck laughed, and he grimaced.

"I'll make something with a lot of calories." Chuck grinned and pushed himself back to his feet.

Michael smiled.

* * *

Chuck glared at the open shoebox sitting innocently on his sheets. Mocking him. Thank God Michael hadn't opened it. Chuck had no desire to see Michael's reaction to Chuck's—admittedly rather vanilla—assortment of porn and sex-related stuff. That would just be beyond embarrassing. It would be mortifying. He was glad he'd returned upstairs when he did, avoiding eternal shame and humiliation.

He shut the box and dropped it to the floor rather carelessly, shoving it underneath his bedframe with one foot.

In the darkness of his bedroom, he lay down.

It felt strange to sleep so high off the ground—Chuck had gotten accustomed to sleeping on a mattress on the floor. But after a little while of aimless fantasies and half-coherent ideas for future books, he fell asleep.

He dreamed about a giant hairless cat named Chester, and spent the night thoroughly disturbed.

* * *

Tuesday morning brought with it fitful showers, humid warmth, and bars of light slipping between the clouds to saturate everything with vibrant color in patches and leave the rest in purple shade.

Chuck felt sad and worn out, and he wasn't sure why.

Perhaps it was loneliness. He had spent little of the weekend with Michael—who'd been surprisingly busy, fishing and cooking and sewing—and knew no one else in town other than those he'd briefly met in shopping lines or on the sidewalk. So, it could have been loneliness. He wanted to talk to someone. Knew if he called his dad, he'd only worry and again insist on driving down immediately no matter what prior appointments he had booked.

So that was out of the question.

Chuck opened his bedroom window and leaned out to look at the damp trees, sighing. Little sprinkles of rain brushed against his face and glasses. He wiped the lenses and ducked back inside, plopping down on his bed and leafing through his notes. He could try and write more of his book, he supposed... Or he could call Michael—finally had his number—and see if, maybe, he wanted to do something.

He opted for the latter.

His cellphone beeped at him, when he flipped it open, so he plugged it in before typing in Michael's number and laying back on his bed.

It rang, and eventually went to voicemail. Unfortunate.

"Michael Milton, please leave a message."

How fitting.

Chuck sighed yet again—it was a sighing kind of day—and dropped his phone onto the sheets, pulling his glasses off and rubbing his face. He needed to shave. Or at least trim. Yes. He would do that. Sometimes a neat appearance led to neater emotions, after all. Or something like that. He pushed himself off of his bed and wandered to the bathroom. Found his little electric beard trimmer that he used maybe once a month and set about the honestly rather irritating task of shaving.

As he was just finishing up, the phone rang. He nearly tripped over his own feet trying to get out of the bathroom quickly, and threw himself onto the bed, flipping his phone open. "Hello?" He took a moment to catch his breath.

"Did you call me? I was in the garden."

Chuck grinned. "Michael! I did—I uh—well, I just wanted to know if you wanted to maybe hang out or something?" He mentally cursed his poor wording and hoped he didn't seem like too much of a dope. "Um—I mean... I want company?"

Michael laughed, softly—almost inaudibly—so Chuck figured he was fine.

"I'm free all day."

Fantastic. Chuck sat up, hugging his pillow to himself. "Really? Cool—" He paused. "Um... You don't have to, though, I mean... I know I'm kind of hyper sometimes and I'm kind of lame—"

"Why are you putting yourself down?" Michael sounded like he was frowning. "You are completely fine, Mr. Shurley. And I want to spend time with you. I promise."

"Ah..." Chuck rested his chin on his pillow. "Um." He fiddled with a loose seam on his jeans.

Michael let out a soft breath, but not in a bad way. In an amused way, or at least Chuck hoped so. He asked Chuck, gently, "Are you lonely?"

Chuck nodded before remembering that, of course, Michael couldn't see him. "A little, I guess." He cleared his throat. "I mean, I guess I'm just now realizing that I really don't know anyone here, and I'm just... sitting alone in my house writing a children's book. Like—I just need some air or something. But it's raining. So I can't write outside because—Well, what if water got in my computer or something?!" He realized he was rambling, and fell silent. "Sorry," he whispered.

"Would you like to come over? You can stay all day. I plan to make dinner over the fire pit tonight, as well. I think you might enjoy that."

"What are you making?"

"Baked potatoes. And fish."

Chuck smiled. "Always fish." He scratched his jaw—the shorter-than-usual stubble felt strange under his nails. "Do you want me to bring anything?"

"Bring yourself. And perhaps your pajamas, if you'd like to take a nap, or just want to be more comfortable."

Very tempting... "Alright. Are you sure I don't need to bring anything?"

"I'm _positive_. I'll see you soon."

"Okay, bye." Chuck set his phone aside. He set about changing into his pajamas. He'd slept poorly for most of the weekend, and the thought of just sitting down in soft clothes in front of Michael's fireplace (whether lit or not) appealed to him enormously. He slipped on his shoes, snatched his keys, and left the duplex.

The rain spattered against his glasses, tiny drops making it hard to see.

He glanced up at the mottled clouds and set off down the road.

When he got to the beach, he saw Michael standing a little ways away from his house, in his canvas jacket that flapped in the breeze as he crouched down and ran his fingers through the sand. Chuck called his name, and he looked up. Waved, and stood. He trotted toward Chuck, and before Chuck could say a word, Michael grabbed his hand and folded something cold and smooth and slightly sandy into his hand. A seashell, with a little crack in it. Chuck raised his eyebrows.

"For me?"

"For you." Michael returned his expression, and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, leading him toward the house. He stepped inside and leaned close to Chuck's ear and whispered, "When you're lonely and I'm not near, you can put it to your ear and hear the ocean, and think of me." He shed his coat and hung it by the door. With a fleeting smile, he disappeared into the kitchen.

Chuck stood in the middle of the living room with a bright blush staining his face.

He pocketed the shell.

Michael reemerged with a mug in his hand, and ushered Chuck to the couch. "Sit down, please." His voice was soft and gentle, and Chuck liked that. He did as asked and settled on the couch. Michael set the mug on one of the little side tables, to Chuck's left, and murmured, "You remember I mentioned chai the other day? I think you'll like it." He lowered himself on the cushion to Chuck's right, and slipped an arm around his waist. Looked so much like a concerned cat that Chuck had to smile a little bit, and couldn't possibly turn down the tea. He wrapped his fingers around the porcelain—all warm and smooth—and breathed in the steam.

It _did_ smell good. Like... really, really good.

"I don't drink chai tea, really, because of its sweetness, but when you were over the first time..." Michael paused, gathering his words about himself. "Well, you obviously find normal tea distasteful, so I thought you might appreciate this."

Chuck sipped at it, and sighed. "It's really strong." He let his eyes drift shut, and leaned against Michael's solid heat. "I like it. It tastes like comfort." What a silly thing to say.

Michael chuckled. "It does, doesn't it?" He gave Chuck's hip a gentle squeeze—as if to reinforce his presence, although he didn't really need to. Chuck was all too aware of Michael's existence. Of every spot their skin brushed, and the sturdiness of his torso and the solid strength in his arms.

He shook the thoughts from his head.

"If I fall asleep you better wake me up."

"Why?"

Chuck's mouth twisted. "Bad dreams."

Frowning, Michael shifted. Supported Chuck more firmly. "If you have a nightmare, I'll wake you up."

That made Chuck's face smooth, for a moment at least. He rolled his eyes and sort of smiled and whispered, "You're a dork." He chewed on his lip. "But I like you anyway." He let his free hand move to his waist, where Michael's hand curled, and slid their fingers together. Leaned his head in the crook of Michael's neck. Michael tightened his arm around Chuck. He even turned his head to press a little tiny kiss to Chuck's temple and cheek.

Chuck let his mind wander a bit. Let his surroundings fade somewhat, except for the spots where Michael's skin brushed his. Everything clouded over with a warm, dreamy fog—until he jerked, involuntarily, dragging himself back into full consciousness. He blinked, tired, and sighed. Realized he still held the mug in one hand, and set it on the side table. If he did fall asleep like that, he didn't particularly want to spill hot tea on his lap. Though he imagined Michael would probably prevent that from happening... But still. Best to take precautions. He rubbed at his eyes, took off his glasses and set those beside the mug. Turned more into Michael's embrace and snuggled into him with a sleepy noise. He could feel the rumble of Michael's quiet laugh in his chest. That, he thought, was nice. Very nice. Fantastic, even—he couldn't tell you what made it so fantastic. Just that it _was_.

"I think you need a bed." Michael moved to stand, but Chuck grabbed a handful of his shirt. Michael sighed. "I'm not going to leave you." He pulled Chuck even further into his arms, and actually lifted him up, bridal style. Chuck would have blushed but he felt too tired and warm to be embarrassed.

Michael only let him down to coax him up the staircase. Probably a good thing too. The idea of being carried up a spiral staircase... No. Just no.

At some point, Chuck found himself cradled in Michael's arms again, and surrounded by mid-morning light. Michael's bed. Soft sheets and the slight smell of citrus from, Chuck assumed, Michael's soap or aftershave or something. He couldn't think hard enough to really figure out what it might be other than it made him think of orange juice mixed with gin and cloves .

He liked it.

He reached out and pulled at Michael's hand, when the other man made as if to move away. Michael allowed himself to be pulled down onto the bed beside Chuck and murmured, "What did I say? I'm not going to leave you." He lay down and wrapped his arms around Chuck. "Though I did plan to change into some pajamas, or at least something moderately more comfortable than what I'm wearing."

Chuck grumbled. Michael huffed. "Fine, fine." He tangled their legs together and let his arms completely encircle Chuck's waist. Kissed Chuck's forehead. Chuck pressed his face against Michael's neck—the source of that orange smell, it seemed. How he hadn't noticed before... Well, maybe the chai had been distracting his nose. He took a deep breath. Bitter orange-y aftershave, yes, but also the slight tang of salt and fish that often lingered on Michael's skin. Increasingly familiar, the more time Chuck spent with him. But still, that citrus smell...

"Did you buy a new aftershave, or something?" Chuck wrinkled his nose.

Michael said, "I've actually had it for a while. But I only began using it within the past few days."

Chuck nodded. Nuzzled Michael. "I thought you smelled different. Less lemon-y." He hummed, warm and content. He could feel himself drifting again, and didn't mind much.

"Yes. I use lemon verbena soap."

"Ahh..." Chuck sighed to himself.

And he fell asleep.

Michael stayed wrapped around him until he could be 100% certain Chuck was asleep. Only then did he disentangle himself as carefully as possible. He remained in his bedroom, though. Changed into pajamas despite it not even being noon yet, and grabbed a book as he stepped onto the bed and climbed over the wrought iron frame at the head of the bed to sit in the window seat. He cracked the window a little. Slightly damp, salty air breathed in through the little crack and rustled the pages of _Haroun and the Sea of Stories_.

He leaned against the window and read, while Chuck slept.

* * *

Michael left a little note beneath Chuck's hand on the pillow, and went outside as the sun peaked high in the sky. The clouds had dispersed, and the water glittered blindingly, while a slight breeze ruffled its surface and sent the lavender whispering. Michael closed his eyes and turned his face to the sky. The wet gravel gave way to damp, dark sand, as he made his way to the fire pit, and it felt cold on his bare feet. He ducked down by the smoker over the pit and checked that it would hold. Seemed sturdy, even after all the rain, and a semi-recent use. He shrugged. As long as it worked. He went back into the house to retrieve his fish from where they were drying and began to go about starting a nice, smoky fire.

He whiled away the time wandering the beach and making sure the fire never got too hot. Waded out into the shallows once or twice, with his jeans rolled to his knees.

Around two in the afternoon, Chuck emerged from the house, rubbing his eyes, hair wild. He sat down in the sand a few feet upwind of the fire—though very little smoke escaped the smoker—and watched Michael build a sandcastle.

"You're good at that."

Michael looked up, mildly startled. He'd been so engrossed in making little towers of sand he'd only noticed Chuck in a peripheral sort of way. He glanced down at his castle and back to Chuck with a crooked half-smile. "Am I?" He decided to build another tower.

"Well, yeah." Chuck walked over on his knees and settled down beside Michael, adjusting his glasses. "Whenever I tried to build sandcastles as a kid they always collapsed. Or looked like blobs." He leaned his head on Michael's shoulder. "But yours is so neat and... it actually looks like a castle." He tittered to himself.

"You flatter me." Michael nudged Chuck, smiling, and said, "Help me make a moat."

Chuck scoffed. "I'll just ruin it. I'm no good at anything."

Michael shook his head and took Chuck's wrist, pulling his hand to rest alongside the castle. "You're good at writing. And you won't ruin it." He raised his eyebrows. "I promise. Just dig a line."

Rolling his eyes, Chuck started to scratch a little trench through the sand. As he dug the miniature moat, he muttered, "I'm not that good at writing. I'm just lucky."

"You're good at painting."

A noncommittal grunt.

"You are!" Michael tapped the back of Chuck's hand with the tip of his finger. "The illustrations in your books are very pretty. Really."

"Thanks. I guess."

Michael sighed. "You just cannot take a compliment, can you?"

Chuck smirked and stabbed at a pebble obstructing his moat. "It's called low self-esteem, Michael." He tossed a piece of shell away. It bounced on the sand. "I really don't think I'm that great at anything. I mean, I guess the books I make end up okay but I feel like they're not good enough. But—oh well, you know? As long as I can get by, mediocre or not, I guess that's alright."

For a few seconds, Michael didn't respond.

But then, softly, he said, "You're good at making me smile."

That made Chuck go still, in the middle of widening a section of the moat. He let out a breath and an unsteady, quiet laugh. "Don't be silly. You _must_ smile even when I'm not around." He kept his eyes on the sandcastle, but moved his hand to take Michael's.

Michael shook his head. "Not very often." He squeezed Chuck's fingers. "There are a few things that make me smile... Strong wind and rain, books, a few songs, and you." He paused. "Especially you." He snorted and looked out at the sea. "Sometimes, at the end of the day, my face hurts from all the smiles you cause."

Chuck didn't know what to say. So he acted on an impulse instead, and leaned up to kiss Michael. As first kisses go, it was kind of salty. But nice. Michael seemed too surprised to react at first, but after a moment's hesitation, he let his hands come up to frame Chuck's face and kissed him back.

When Chuck drew away, Michael watched him with a somewhat dazed expression. Chuck hoped it was a good daze.

"Um—" He cleared his throat. "Was that okay?"

Michael nodded. He seemed at a loss for words. "I—" He scratched the back of his neck. "Yes. It's been a long time since..." A vague gesture. "Since I've done that." He couldn't help but grin a little bit, ducking his head and turning a little pink around the ears.

"Me too."

"Oh. That's... reassuring. I suppose." Michael sighed. "I apologize... I usually don't have this much trouble expressing myself properly."

Chuck snorted and leaned against Michael's side. "Take your own advice and don't say you're sorry unless you've done something wrong." He tilted his head at an awkward angle to beam up at Michael. "It's okay to have trouble with your words, sometimes. God knows I can never figure out what the hell to say."

"You just did pretty well, to be honest."

"Better at giving pep talks than I thought, huh?" Chuck smirked.

Michael nodded wordlessly.

"Um..." Chuck wiggled his toes in the sand, moat forgotten. "What're you making? On the fire, I mean."

"I'm smoking salmon."

"Ahh."

Chuck leaned back on his palms, warm wet sand between his fingers, and looked up at the sky. "I saw a flier for a drive-in theater, the other day. It looks neat. Um, I think we'd have to bring a radio to get the sound, but we could just take my motorcycle or your bike or walk or something...?"

"Yeah?" Michael looked up, too. White clouds scooted around the sky here and there, shifting with the breeze. "When is it?"

"Uh... Friday?" Chuck made a face. "I think? I'll call you about it, or something."

"Alright."

Overhead, a seagull cried.

"So..." Chuck coughed.

Michael smiled at him. "So?"

"So, uh..." Chuck began to realize that although it had been something like three weeks since he met Michael, they still knew very little about each other. "Truth or Dare?"

"Excuse me?"

Chuck made the most scandalized face he could. "You don't know Truth or Dare?!" He sat up straighter and crossed his arms. "Unacceptable!"

Michael tried not to look too perturbed, but failed pretty miserably. "Should I know it?" He put a hand out to Chuck, who seemed torn between laughter and faux-sternness. "It sounds like a game. We didn't play many games when I was young. Is it some sort of question game?"

"What? Why didn't you—Never mind. I can pry into your personal life later." Chuck hopped up onto his knees and planted his hands on his hips, looming non-threateningly over Michael. "Basically, you're right. It's a game where we take turns asking 'truth or dare?' So, I ask you that, and you pick one. And if you pick 'truth,' I get to ask you a question and you have to answer with the truth. And if you pick dare—"

"Let me guess," Michael's eyebrows seemed to be attempting to escape from his face. "You give me a task, and I have to do it?"

"Yes!"

Michael huffed out a quiet laugh. "You're so enthusiastic about it," he said. "I suppose we could try it. I think you'd better start, though."

Chuck tittered and settled back down on the sand, facing Michael rather than sitting beside him. He sat back on his heels. "Okay, so? Truth or dare?"

"...Dare."

"Well, now that I know you don't like to talk about yourself, I dare you to..." Chuck paused. He hummed to himself, at a loss. "Shit. Um. Go walk into the water in all your clothes."

Pushing himself to his feet, Michael asked, "That's it?"

"Shut up! I'm uncreative."

He got a snort in response, as Michael walked down the beach. He waded out into the surf until the water came up to his armpits, and spread his arms out. Chuck shouted, "Duck your head!" So Michael briefly disappeared from sight, and reappeared soaking wet. He returned, pushing his dripping hair back from his forehead. He plopped down next to Chuck, "accidentally" getting a bit of sand on the smaller man's already-sandy pajama pants.

He leveled a stare on Chuck. "My turn, right? Truth, or dare?"

"Truth. Because dares require effort. I'd rather lay on top of you and answer dumb questions." Chuck demonstrated his point further by draping himself across Michael's lap, leaning his head against Michael's chest. "Now ask me."

"Alright." One of Michael's hands settled on Chuck's knee as he thought. "What is... the absolute worst gift you've ever received?"

Chuck thought for a few seconds. "My great aunt gave me a box of extra-large condoms when I was in twelfth grade. I think she forgot it was my birthday and just grabbed something at the last minute. Needless to say, I threw them away."

Michael grinned. "That is pretty terrible." He paused. "Am I to understand that you're too small for extra-large condoms?"

"Oh my God." Chuck covered his face with his hands. "That wasn't the purpose of that story."

"I can tell."

Chuck buried his face in Michael's neck.

"You're blushing." Michael stroked Chuck's knee with his thumb and smiled slightly. "It's your turn to ask again."

"I know, I know." Chuck wasn't sure if he was responding to Michael's first sentence, or the second one. He puffed out a breath, and tried not to blush further. "So, pick."

"You have to _ask_ me."

Chuck rolled his eyes with a snort. "_Fine_. Truth or dare?"

"Dare."

"Why am I not surprised?"

Michael gave Chuck's knee a light pat—a pretend slap. "You shush. Dare me to do something."

A long silence.

Eventually, "I dare you to make out with me."

Voice low, Michael said, "Somehow, I doubt that's much of a dare." He interrupted Chuck's inevitable protest and pressed their mouths together. It was an awkward angle, so he grabbed Chuck and practically picked him up to encourage him to move. Chuck got with the picture and sat so his knees dug into the sand on either side of Michael's hips.

Michael's mouth was, not shockingly, very warm. Like his hands.

Chuck would hesitate to say they "made out," because usually in his mind that entailed a lot more tongue and teeth and a lot less actually being able to breathe... But there it was. Really modest making out. Chaste, even. Chuck drew back and asked, "You uh... you've never actually made out with anyone, have you?" He tried not to seem teasing, but he feared he came off that way anyway.

Michael frowned. "Is it obvious?"

"No! I mean, a little? Not in an inexperienced way—" Chuck sighed. "I always think of French kisses when I think of, you know, 'making out.'" He shrugged.

"Oh... Do you... want me to...?" Michael made a face. He obviously had no desire to be French in any way, shape or form.

"No! No—not unless you want to."

Still frowning, Michael nodded. "I'd prefer not to, to be honest. I... I didn't enjoy it, the one time I tried..."

He wouldn't meet Chuck's eyes. Seemed nervous, suddenly, when he hadn't been before. Chuck cupped Michael's face in his hands, bumping their foreheads together, and said, "If you don't like it, we won't do it." He met Michael's eyes. "Okay?"

"I—okay." Michael smiled. "Thank you."

"I'm just being a decent person."

"And I'm glad." Michael let his arms wrap loosely around Chuck's waist, and spoke softly. "I've met some less than decent people in my life, so I'm glad you're a good one."

Chuck kissed the corner of his mouth.

They spent the afternoon lazily. Michael checked that the fire remained a steady temperature, and Chuck drew pictures in the sand, still in his pajamas, occasionally shoving at his glasses when they slipped down his nose. He should have just left them at home, but sometimes the ability to see won out over style and convenience. He grumbled and took them off, setting them carefully down on a flat, worn piece of driftwood wedged deep into the sand.

Michael tilted his head curiously. "You don't like those, do you?"

"Hm?" Chuck frowned. Followed Michael's gesture. "Oh. I dunno." He scratched a little swirl into the sand by his feet. "I feel kind of silly in glasses. And they get in the way. But mostly I just feel like I look dumb in them, I guess." He laughed. "I sound like a teenager. 'I hate glasses! So uncool!'"

"I don't think you look dumb in them." Michael lay back against the sand. "They make you look..."

"Smart?"

"Cute."

Chuck blushed and kicked at Michael's side with his bare foot. "I'm not cute, I'm manly."

Michael raised his eyebrows. "Can't the two go hand-in-hand?"

"Maybe."

"Definitely." Michael stared up at the sky for a moment. It darkened at the edges, and the sun hung closer to the horizon, sending bright light flickering over the waves. He pushed himself up with a grunt and said, "I'll be right back." He disappeared into the house for a few moments. Came back out with a glass casserole dish full of what Chuck had to assume were potatoes—they were wrapped in foil. He walked past Chuck and stopped by the fire.

"Are you going to smoke the potatoes too?"

Michael laughed. "No, Mr. Shurley, I am not going to _smoke_ the potatoes." He picked up the tee-pee shaped smoker and set it off to the side, exposing the fire more fully and sending a puff of smoke into the air. He moved the fish—set them in the casserole dish next to the potatoes—and poked at the fire a little bit. He put the foil-wrapped potatoes around the edge of the fire, on the hot ashes. He stoked the fire, and sat down beside Chuck again.

"Won't the fish get cold?"

"Oh." Michael stood up again and grabbed the casserole dish. "I'm actually going to freeze most of this. The rest, however, is going into some pasta." He went back into the house.

Chuck shook his head.

When the potatoes finished, they sat in the sand and ate them with a bit of crumbled up fish shoved inside, and some sour cream. Chuck burned his tongue, but other than that he enjoyed himself. The sky had cleared completely, and a breeze whispered through the lavender in front of Michael's house. Though it did send a little bit of sand into Chuck's face, which he found less than pleasant.

"Gross."

Michael laughed.

They stayed out there for Chuck didn't know how long. Late—late enough for the sun to finally cling to the horizon and highlight the edges of the cloudless sky orange and yellow. Chuck squinted into the light. He dug his fingers into the now-dry sand. It was warm to the touch. He leaned on Michael and reached for his glasses, shoving them onto his face. The sunset came more into focus.

"What time is it?" He wiggled his toes—though it was getting dark, the air remained relatively warm, and the breeze had died away completely at least an hour earlier.

Michael glanced at the watch on his wrist. "About nine."

"Wow—really?"

"Yes."

"Huh."

Pushing himself to his feet, Michael asked, "I want to show you the stars."

Chuck tilted his head. "Um... they're just... in the sky. I can see them." He pointed. "Up there."

"No, no." Michael reached down and pulled Chuck up to stand beside him. "I want to show you _all_ of the stars. Away from the light pollution. Have you ever seen the Milky Way in real life?" He took Chuck's hand. "It's amazing. When I first moved here from New York—I had never even seen the ocean, and I knew stars existed but I never knew just how many there were. When you go out to the middle of nowhere, on a trail or in a boat, and you can look up at the stars without the pollution from a city, it's like being immersed in the sky." His eyes were wide, and he smiled. Like a little boy excited to show someone his favorite hiding place. "You have to see it."

"Okay, okay!" Chuck let Michael drag him toward the side of the house. "But what are we going to do? I'm in my pajamas."

"As long as you have a lifejacket, it doesn't matter. I won't be fishing, so we don't need to worry as much about proper gear. And we'll be going slow."

Chuck nodded. "So, you're taking me out in your sailboat, for a night cruise?" He snorted. "Sounds like something straight out of a rom-com."

"Except I'm actually taking you out in my rowboat."

"You have a _rowboat_?"

Michael shrugged. He pulled at a tarp, revealing a sturdy looking rowboat large enough to seat two people. He rummaged around underneath one of the benches and pulled out a few things. First, lifejackets. He helped Chuck put one on, and pulled his own on as well. He handed Chuck a fairly large camping lantern—the kind with a hook attached for hanging from boughs and the insides of tents and that kind of thing—and said, "I want you to go upstairs, into the laundry room, and get out on the roof, and put this on the roof. There's a special spot for it you can't miss. Put it there, make sure it's secure, and turn it on its highest setting." He pushed Chuck away gently. "It's got a brand new battery, so don't worry about power."

Chuck scurried away to do as he was told. He found that he really couldn't miss the spot for the lamp. There was a little metal mount with hinges that fit the lantern perfectly and actually bolted down to hold it in place. Chuck turned the light on, nearly blinding himself in the process, and clambered back through the window.

When he came back outside, Michael had pulled the boat out to the front of the house. "Help me carry this." He gestured to the rowboat.

They hauled it northward together, and as they walked, Michael said, "We're not going out into the open waters. The bay leads to a stream—or maybe it's a river; I never bothered to check—that's much safer and still goes far away enough from civilization that visibility is high. But first, we have to get to it."

"Darn you for being responsible." Chuck huffed and puffed. He didn't exactly exercise a lot, and his arms were starting to hurt just above the elbows. Fingers too. He grimaced. "I'm out of shape."

Michael laughed breathlessly. "Just you wait—by the end of summer, you'll have a six-pack."

"I doubt it!"

Just when Chuck felt like he wouldn't be able to help any longer, Michael instructed him to let his end of the boat down. He did so with a great deal of relief and shook out his arms. "Gonna be sore tomorrow..."

"Three minutes carrying half a rowboat won't kill you." Michael fiddled around with a few things in the growing darkness. He set up his running lights—white on the stern and red and green sidelights on the bow. He pushed it into a narrower area of the bay Chuck hadn't noticed before.

"You can get in first. I'll steady you." He held his hand out.

Chuck let Michael help him into the boat, and sat down gingerly. He'd never actually been on anything smaller than a pontoon boat, so it felt a little strange. And kind of a little bit terrifying. But he trusted that he'd be safe... ish. This was Michael, after all, and they both wore lifejackets. He couldn't help but grip at the side, however, when Michael sat down facing Chuck (and the stern), and the boat rocked slightly. Michael gave him a reassuring smile.

"Have you ever been out in a boat?" Michael glanced over his shoulder and began to row.

Chuck's hands clenched into fists on his knees. "Um..." He looked down at his bare feet, toes curled. "I've been on my uncle's catamaran, but that's it."

"Well, you can relax."

Chuck tried but it didn't really work. He still felt unsteady—what if they capsized?

As if Michael could read Chuck's mind, he said, "We won't capsize. I promise." He nudged Chuck's ankle with his foot. "And you've got your flotation device. We're not in open water. Like I said: safe."

"I guess."

"Look at me."

Chuck met Michael's eyes rather reluctantly. He couldn't really see his face in the darkness, even with his glasses, but that didn't matter much. Michael smiled at him, and Chuck could just see the white flash of his teeth. He felt himself relaxing almost immediately. Something about Michael's smile made Chuck feel so much more at ease—probably endorphins or something. He grinned back, and maybe accidentally let his legs stretch out a bit, so their toes just barely brushed. Not in a footsie way... more like an "I'm comfortable enough with you to let our feet touch" way. It was more comfortable, anyway.

"Okay, good." Michael didn't pull away, or anything, so that was a good sign. "Now I want you to keep an eye out, and if you see any lights or anything, tell me."

"Oh—sure." Chuck cleared his throat and tried to look observant. He saw nothing, though. Only the glitter of the moonlight on the water.

The bay widened up again. It seemed to kind of balloon outward, and then narrowed once more and broke off into a few separate rivers and streams. Michael took a moment to figure out where he wanted to go, and headed for one of the larger outlets. Didn't want to get stuck after all. He steered them carefully with the oars. Took a moment to point. "Look."

Chuck followed the direction of his pointing finger. Just off in the distance he could see a tiny speck of light.

"That's the lantern I had you put out. In a moment you won't be able to see it."

As he spoke, the light disappeared.

"We're more than 500 meters away from my house."

"So, what, a five minute walk?"

"Yes." Michael checked over his shoulder and adjusted the direction of the boat a little bit.

"Wait, what the hell kind of lantern is visible from 500 meters away?!"

Michael smirked. "The very expensive kind." He paused. "But it only lasts for five hours on the highest setting, so we can't stay out too long or we might get lost."

Chuck frowned and scratched his ankle with his toes. "But... wouldn't we get lost anyway, out here? Since we can't see it—I mean, once the light's visible it's like five minutes to your house on foot so why would you need it?"

"Well," Michael stopped rowing and fumbled for something under his bench. He pulled out a little dark square-shaped thing. "I have a GPS. And a compass, somewhere. So if I _really_ get lost, I can use those to get back." He shoved the GPS back under his seat. "But I don't really use them much. The lantern on the roof is mostly so I don't have to think once I'm carrying the boat back, and it also lets my closest neighbor know I'm out on the bay." He smiled again. "He stays up all night so if I never come home, and he saw the lamp on at night, he'll know to tell someone where I went."

"...I guess that sort of makes sense? In a weird way."

Michael chuckled.

After about an hour, Michael stopped. He pulled the oars into the boat. The horizon had long since gone completely dark and the half-moon hung in the sky.

"See?"

Chuck adjusted his glasses and tilted his head back to look up.

He wasn't sure, but he might have stopped breathing for a moment.

Above, stars covered the sky. In every direction they scattered like loose glitter or dust, denser in some areas than others, swirling around each other. The Milky Way stretched overhead, thick with pricks of light, like a cloud made from stardust. He'd never seen anything so stunning—sure, he'd seen pictures of the sky, and in theory knew it looked something like this, but seeing it in person... That was an entirely different experience.

He stared at it for a long time. Eventually, he spoke, barely audible. "Michael, this is amazing."

"I told you."

"Yeah, but—" Chuck let out a huff. "_Wow_."

"Couldn't have said it better myself."

"Shush!" Chuck aimed a half-hearted kick at Michael's ankle, grinning. "Meanie."

Michael laughed to himself. "I have just been called a 'meanie' by an adult man." He shook his head and looked up at the stars. "Writing juvenile fiction must turn you into a child yourself, hm?"

"Would you like it better if I told you to fuck off?"

All Chuck got in response was a wider grin. He huffed.

That night, when Chuck got home, he stripped down to his underwear for bed. When his still-sandy pajama pants dropped to the floor, though, something clacked. He frowned and knelt down to rummage through the pocket. A seashell. The one Michael had given him. He turned it over in his hand. Held it up to his ear and listened to the rushing sound it made. He smiled and set the shell on his nightstand.

He slept with the window open and the shell within reach.

* * *

Michael would never admit it, but he was nervous. Not extremely so. Just moderately so. He gave himself a once-over in the mirror, straightened his collar, and made sure his hair was presentable. He didn't want to look silly or sloppy. Sure, they only planned to go to the drive-in, maybe stop somewhere for dinner, and then head back to his place, but he still wanted to look good. After all, he felt pretty sure their outing would count as a date. A movie date, to a drive-in theater, but without a car.

He took a deep breath. Good enough. It would get rumpled during the walk anyway. He headed downstairs. Grabbed his picnic basket—this time it held a radio, a flashlight, some snacks and a spare sweater or two, rather than an actual picnic—on his way out the door.

When Michael knocked on Chuck's door it opened almost right away. Obviously, Chuck had been waiting for him, but Michael didn't mention it. Instead, he held his arm and said, "Good evening."

Chuck beamed at him and took his arm. "You look like a teacher today." He stuck to Michael's side like an energetic barnacle as they walked. "But your shirt's wrinkly so instead you just look like a hipster."

"I forgot to do my laundry." Michael shook his head. "All of my clean shirts are dress shirts, and the iron is broken."

"You forgot to do your laundry?" Chuck laughed. "Now, me, I would understand. But you're always so organized, I find it hard to believe you'd ever forget to wash your clothes!" He tightened his hold on Michael's arm and leaned into him.

Michael tutted. "It's your fault." He smiled, though. "I've been distracted by your constant presence, and as it turns out, procrastination seems to be contagious." He nudged Chuck playfully, and let his arm drop so he could take Chuck's hand instead. He laced their fingers together.

Chuck made a face. "Don't blame me for your forgetfulness."

"I wouldn't blame you if you weren't so entertaining."

"Awww," Chuck leaned over to peck Michael's cheek. "You're sweet."

Michael snorted and tried not to blush. "How is that sweet? I'm blaming you for my own transgressions, and you think it's cute. You must be some kind of alien." But he squeezed Chuck's hand and kissed his temple at an awkward angle—stumbled on a crack in the sidewalk while he wasn't paying attention. Chuck laughed and didn't say anything. He just swung their hands and took big steps, like a little kid. A folded up green flier fluttered in his other hand.

"May I see that?" Michael nodded his head toward the flier.

"Oh—" Chuck let Michael's hand go and handed him the piece of paper. Michael tried to unfold it one-handed, but gave up after a minute and set his basket down. Finally he held it out flat to read. Big block letters and a lot of Comic Sans. It was like looking at the newsletters Greg made for the students to take home to their parents.

It proclaimed, "Riverfront Drive-In June Extravaganza!" and listed several show dates, for each week of the month. Seemed like every Wednesday, Friday and Sunday night the drive-in showed various movies. He checked the listing for Friday, June 20th. _Gentlemen Prefer Blondes_, it said. Michael knew nothing about that movie except that it starred Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell. However, he owned the book the musical had been based on. Never got around to reading it, but he owned it. He hummed to himself and folded the piece of paper again, handing it off the Chuck and taking up his picnic basket once more.

The drive-in wasn't particularly far. Maybe twenty minutes away. It situated itself on a sort of false island on the river, which was accessible by bridge. Though the bridge didn't have a sidewalk, which made things a little trying. But they kept close to the guardrail, and only one or two cars drove over, so it wasn't as terrible as it might have been.

"It would be safer to _swim_ than cross this thing on a busy day." Chuck clung tight to Michael's side with a nervous laugh. Michael smiled and led Chuck to the tented box office. The woman working there gave them their tickets and directed them to a little row of lawn chairs specifically for guests on foot. There was even a row of speakers set up already, so the radio in Michael's picnic basket turned out to be unneeded. The snacks, on the other hand...

Chuck picked through the trail mix for all of the M&M's and raisins, and let Michael eat the nuts. Michael avoided the almonds, for the most part, because he didn't like the texture, but the cashews and peanuts were welcome. They passed the time until the movie began talking about the weather.

Despite the fact that it was June, the weather stayed astonishingly cool. It should have been ten degrees warmer and a lot drier, but Michael didn't mind. "I like the wind and the rain," he said. "It's invigorating. But I remember my first spring here—you know how springtime is when the weather gets intense? Well, I'd never truly experienced that, so the first wind storm of the season caught me by surprise. I thought the house was going to come down on top of me, it was so loud. And the rain... it felt like the beach was just about ready to wash away completely."

"Sounds scary."

"Well, I suppose it was. And it's not that it's much windier here than in New York, but something about the way the wind manifests itself is different." In the growing dark, Michael shrugged. (Chuck's mannerisms were starting to rub off on him.) "It feels different to experience a spring storm in a rickety house directly on the beach, as compared to a penthouse apartment. I was used to one but not the other."

Chuck made a face. "You lived in a penthouse?!"

"With my brother." Michael laughed, softly. Though his expression grew a little somber. "We ran a business, and we made quite a bit of money." He paused. The sky had gone much darker, and the large screen slowly began to illuminate. "I'll tell you about it some other time?"

Chuck nodded. "That's fine." He took Michael's hand and smiled.

Michael was relieved. He didn't particularly want to tell Chuck his life story at a drive-in. Or... ever. He would have to at least talk a little bit about his family eventually, but he needed a little bit of time—even if only an extra two hours.

The movie distracted him from his thoughts.

A slight breeze picked up as the movie ended, so before they left, Michael pulled on the navy blue cardigan he'd brought along. He handed a lighter blue cable knit sweater to Chuck. Chuck got caught in it for half a second, and when his head finally popped out of the neck hole his hair was sticking up in a few different directions. Michael laughed and reached out to smooth it down a little bit. He let his palm rest, briefly, against the side of Chuck's head, before he leaned forward and pecked his cheek, then grabbed the picnic basket and began to leave. Chuck kept close to his side.

"I think this sweater is too big."

Michael spared a glance at Chuck, shining the flashlight at him. (They walked along a stretch of road without streetlamps or sidewalk—just a gravel path.) He grinned. "It _is_ too big."

It was true. The sleeves covered Chuck's hands completely and the hem hung over his butt, while the collar sat a little crooked. It looked like a sky-blue bag with sleeves, on Chuck.

"If you had your glasses, you'd look like a college student."

"I _would_." Chuck laughed and crossed his arms. He leaned against Michael's side, eyelids drooping. "But much older."

Michael shook his head, wrapping his arm around Chuck's waist to support him and pull him close. "You really don't look old. Maybe thirty-five, at most. You could pass for an older college student." He paused, and smiled. "Like those thirty-year olds who go back to school."

"What? No." Chuck frowned intently. "I could never pass for thirty."

"You might."

"Nonsense." Chuck bumped his forehead against Michael's shoulder. "You're just trying to flatter me. Are you trying to butter me up?"

Michael let out a surprised snort. "Butter you up for what?" he asked.

"Mm... you know what I mean." Chuck yawned so wide that, for a moment, Michael worried he might dislocate his jaw or something equally unpleasant. Then he yawned again, but much smaller. He blinked. "Sorry. Tired. Anyway, you know exactly what you'd wanna butter me up for."

Michael said, "I don't know."

Chuck looked up at him, forehead creasing. He smiled and his face smoothed out. "You're innocent."

"I'm not innocent. I'm just..." Michael shrugged. He couldn't think of a way to finish his sentence so he let it trail off into the night, as the flashlight beam bobbed through the darkness. Chuck laughed and burrowed tighter against his side, and began to hum a little tune. Just a quiet, nondescript song, with no particular composition. Something to fill the air as they walked.

The quiet continued for a while, but it was enjoyable. Comfortable. Just walking along, arm in arm, with an uneven tune to keep total silence at bay.

Eventually, as the sidewalk manifested, Chuck asked, "Do you wanna stay the night? At my place." He kept his eyes on his shoes.

"Hm..."

Michael pretended as if the question needed a lot of thinking about. Of course, it didn't. But he didn't want to seem overeager. Finally, he said, "That sounds nice. So long as I don't have to sleep on the couch." He didn't really smile, but of course, he was happy nonetheless. And Chuck could clearly tell—he grinned at Michael, warm like the sun.

At Michael's house, they dropped off the picnic basket, and Michael retrieved his toothbrush and some pajamas, and they left.

Thin clouds drifted across the moon. The breeze rustled through the leaves on the trees and made Chuck shiver a little, so Michael wrapped his arm around Chuck and pulled him against his side. "You're always so cold." He pressed a kiss to the top of Chuck's head.

"It's annoying." Chuck wrinkled his nose. "I have to wear socks around the house 'cause my toes get cold."

"A tragedy."

Chuck elbowed Michael (gently) but grinned. He dragged Michael so he walked a little faster, and even made him stumble in the dark between streetlamps, as the duplex came into view. "You're lucky I like you," he said, as he pulled Michael toward the carport. "or I'd probably make you go home right now! No snuggling for you!"

"Just for sarcasm?" Michael gave Chuck a squeeze. "I tremble in fear at what you might have me do if I ever truly anger you."

Chuck laughed. "Probably make you sleep in the attic."

Michael made a face, as they came up to Chuck's door. "That sounds unpleasant, to say the least."

"Yeah, well—" Chuck fumbled with his keys and dropped them with a curse. He crouched down to pick them up. Briefly turned to Michael as he unlocked the front door. "Let's just say... the attic isn't really an attic as much as a small, dusty crawlspace I discovered two days ago and decided to block with a bookshelf. Because it's creepy as Hell." He laughed and shoved the door open. Held out his hand with a smile, and asked, "Coming?"

"Of course." Michael took Chuck's hand and followed him inside. "Sounds dreadful. I'll have to be on my best behavior so I don't get banished to the crawlspace." He closed the door behind them with his foot and slid his arms around Chuck's waist, leaning their foreheads together. He wasn't sure if he wanted to kiss Chuck, or just stay like that. Chuck made the choice for him and angled in for a kiss. Michael tried his best to reciprocate—he liked kissing Chuck, and he wanted to do it well, but he lacked experience. Chuck didn't seem to notice or mind, though. He just held Michael's face between his cool hands and pressed their mouths together firmly, and certainly enthusiastically.

Michael let him take over. At Chuck's soft—but insistent—touch, he took a few steps backward, until his back met with the wall. He could feel himself blushing, even though Chuck didn't do anything particularly suggestive. He didn't even try to use tongue. Surprising. Most people Michael had been with (not that he'd really had the chance to be with many people at all) tried to French kiss almost immediately. But Chuck just held him there, against the wall, and kept it clean.

Chuck pulled away enough to ask. "I know you said you didn't really have a lot of experience," His voice was quiet, and he looked thoughtful. "and I was wondering... Have you ever dated anyone? Before me?"

"Um—" Michael frowned. He had been raised not to speak with unnecessary space fillers. He looked Chuck in the eye, and said, "I was engaged when I lived in New York." He paused. Shifted uncomfortably and let his mouth twist. "Just after the Marriage Equality Act passed, my mother arranged for me to be engaged to a man named Dean. It... uh... it didn't go well." He shook his head.

"Hey," Chuck framed Michael's face in his hands, rubbing his thumb against Michael's cheek. "You... You don't have to tell me this, if it makes you feel bad."

Michael shook his head. "Communication is important."

"Well, _yeah_. But..." Chuck sighed. "You don't have to say everything all at once, you know? You can take it a little bit at a time. Trust me."

"I... alright."

Chuck smiled at Michael, letting his hand drift down to settle on Michael's shoulder. He murmured, "Now, how about we get ready for bed, hm? I'll let you be the big spoon." He dropped a light kiss on Michael's nose and moved toward the stairs. Michael followed after him like a large puppy.

They changed, and settled into bed in the dark with the window cracked open to let in the gentle breeze. As Chuck promised, he let Michael enfold him in his arms. Their bodies lined up near perfectly, and Michael pressed his face to the back of Chuck's neck, breathing in the smell of sea air that lingered on his skin.

They slept late—when Michael woke up and saw the clock ticking away just past eleven he was surprised the he hadn't woken earlier. But Chuck's room was still plunged into darkness from the thick curtains that covered the window, so perhaps that explained it. He debated just staying in bed for a while longer, but he really needed to use the bathroom, so he extricated himself from Chuck and moved as quietly as possible.

Chuck barely stirred. It was only when Michael climbed back into bed—he'd decided that he could afford to be lazy just once—that Chuck blinked his eyes open. He twisted to look over his shoulder at Michael and smiled. "Hi there," he murmured. He rubbed his eyes, yawning, and scooted around so he could lay on his back. He put his hand out, palm against Michael's cheek.

"Good morning." Michael returned his smile, half as bright but just as warm. He covered Chuck's hand with his own. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yeah." Chuck yawned again. "Didn't even dream—you know, usually I have weird dreams, but not last night. Not most of the time with you, actually. Strange, isn't it?"

Michael huffed out a small, gentle laugh. "Very strange." He turned his head and pressed his lips to Chuck's palm. Kissed the soft inside of his wrist as well, and the crook of his elbow, and his shoulder. Chuck made a face, but broke out into a grin right after, and all but giggled—perhaps it sounded juvenile, but Michael could think of that laugh as nothing other than a giggle—when Michael dropped feather-light little kisses up his throat.

"Is your neck ticklish?" Michael raised his eyebrows, mischief just barely hidden behind his slight smile.

"No!" Chuck pushed at Michael's face. "It's not—there's no point in trying to tickle me, because I am _not_ ticklish at all, anywhere!" He gave Michael this _look_. The kind that said,_ If you tickle me I will kick you in the face_. Instead, he said, "I'll disown you if you try."

Michael snorted. "You can't disown me. We're not related." And a good thing, too, he thought. He settled half on top of Chuck, nuzzling against his throat. "But I won't tickle you, if you don't want me to."

"Good."

Chuck ran his fingers through the short hair at the back of Michael's neck as they lay wordlessly in bed. Eventually, he reached his free hand up and tugged at the curtains, letting in a little sliver of late morning sunlight. His stomach growled. He sighed and prodded at Michael until Michael rolled off of him. He sat up. "Do you want anything specific for brea—uh... lunch? Brunch. Do you want anything for brunch, or just whatever?"

Michael hummed. "'Just whatever' is fine. You can make anything you'd like. As long as it's not full of sugar."

"Of course. What do you take me for, some kind of allergy-forgetting monster?!" Chuck hopped out of bed. As he wandered toward the bathroom, he said, "I'll just make some eggs or something."

Downstairs, while Chuck stood at the stove making scrambled eggs, Michael sat at the table. He ran his fingers along the whorls of the fake wood and watched Chuck move about his kitchen, with a subdued smile on his face. Sunlight filled the room, and the smell of bacon as well, from the other pan. Birdsong filtered through the open windows. They didn't speak much—just the occasional quiet word exchanged here and there.

Chuck placed a plate of eggs in front of Michael, and put his own on the table as well, with bacon on the side, and a mug of coffee. He sat beside Michael, leaning against him. They ate, and mumbled about the weather, and brushed hands.

Sitting at the table, with an empty plate, Michael asked, "Do you have any nice clothing? Something you would be able to wear to a somewhat formal event?"

"What? Yeah." Chuck stood, taking their plates. "Why?" He walked over to the sink and set their dishes in it, and as he walked back to Michael, said, "Do you need me to wear fancy clothes somewhere?" He stopped behind Michael and wrapped his arms around his shoulders.

Michael tilted his head, and his nose brushed Chuck's face as he spoke. "I want to take you out somewhere nice. Out of town." He reached a hand up and tangled his fingers in Chuck's short curls, twisting himself further so he could kiss Chuck. "Is that alright?" His eyes crossed as he tried to focus on Chuck's face, and Chuck grinned and kissed him back, humming a soft affirmation.

"I'd like that." Chuck's voice was a whisper against Michael's mouth. "I'd feel bad if you paid for a fancy date like that, though. I mean... Well, we're both grown-ups. I'd feel better if we split it, you know?"

"I suppose. I wanted to... treat you, I suppose. You're still just settling in to town, and I guess I've never had a chance to take someone out. Not really. But if you want to split... I'm just saying, I have the money, and I don't mind." Michael stood, and turned, and leaned his forehead against Chuck's.

Chuck smiled and let his eyes half-close. "I won't say no." He laced his fingers with Michael's. "I think I've only been on, like... one fancy date. Ever. And I was like twenty. So if you really want to, you can pay for everything. At least, let me pay for the bus."

"Oh, fine." Michael kissed Chuck's cheek. "I never said we would take the bus, but you're obviously smart enough to know that the nearest town with a nice restaurant is much too far to walk or bike to, hm?"

"Of course. I'm very smart."

Michael laughed.

* * *

"You look very nice, Mr. Shurley." Michael held his arm out for Chuck. He kissed Chuck's temple and led him to the sidewalk. The late afternoon sun shone down on them and reflected off of Chuck's glasses.

Chuck grinned. "You don't look so bad yourself, Mr. Michael Milton. Is that seersucker?" He gave Michael a long look up and down.

"It is."

A pale blue striped cotton suit, with a navy colored bowtie and matching canvas shoes, and a plain white dress shirt. Hair pushed back neatly from his face.

"You look like a wealthy young man from the twenties."

Michael smiled, and shook his head. "And you look like a professor."

"Aw, is it 'cause of all the brown? I thought I had not-brown clothes but apparently I don't. Brown and black and more brown." Chuck looked down at his caramel-colored slacks. "At least my pants are a different shade of brown than my sweater and like half my other clothes." He rolled up the sleeves of his black button-up shirt, with his sweater draped over his shoulder. "I guess looking like a professor isn't so bad though."

"Well, honestly, it's less because of the brown and more because of the glasses in combination with a sweater vest—" Michael huffed out a soft laugh. "You just need a camel hair jacket with elbow patches, and the look will be completed."

Chuck laughed, as the bus stop came into view. "I think that'd be too much in July. Even this is too warm."

"And that's why my suit is made of seersucker."

"Well, I'm not that smart." Chuck sat on the bench and made a face.

Michael sat beside him. "I thought you were_ very smart_, though."

"Not as much as I thought."

The bus rumbled up and they fell silent. Better to sit in companionable quiet in the back of the bus than try to speak over the engine and the air conditioning. They sat close enough that their shoulders brushed but not close enough that their thighs pressed together, though it was very close. It was, after all, something like seventy-five degrees out, which, although not extremely hot, didn't exactly encourage a lot of physical touch. Even in an artificially cooled bus.

The ride took at least two hours, but eventually they found themselves in downtown Eugene.

"Are we gonna be late?" Chuck held Michael's hand as they walked down the sidewalk.

Michael shook his head. "We're a little bit early." He smiled. "We have just enough time to get lost and then find our way again."

"Oh, that sounds _super_ romantic. I love getting lost." Chuck snorted.

"Oh, shush." Michael nudged Chuck lightly with his elbow. He tugged him around a corner. "You think I would really let us get lost? After all this effort to get you here in the first place? Never. You're too special."

Chuck blushed and moved closer to Michael, ducking his head. "You're embarrassing. I'm not..." His mouth twisted. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

They found the place in a decent amount of time—got there a few minutes early, actually. They were escorted to a small, cozy table in the back of the Italian restaurant, under a small, dim lamp. The space was actually tiny enough that, underneath the slick round table, Michael's knees bumped against Chuck's. They had to entwine their legs to be more comfortable. Neither minded. It felt intimate, and warm. Comforting, as they browsed the menus, occasionally pointing something out.

When they ordered—just simple things: pasta for Chuck and soup for Michael—the waitress asked, "Would you like a drink? I can get you the wine list?" She looked hopeful.

"Oh..." Michael frowned. "I don't usually drink..."

"I do. I'd like to see the list, if that's okay."

She nodded enthusiastically and disappeared.

Chuck leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "I never really liked wine, but it's okay sometimes." He smiled at Michael. "I always preferred Jack Daniels."

Michael raised his eyebrows. He leaned his elbows on the table and stared at Chuck thoughtfully, clasping his hands together in front of his mouth. He smiled with his eyes, and spoke quietly. "I don't mind the taste of certain wines." He shrugged just barely, a fluid twitch of his shoulders as he glanced down at the tabletop. His eyes flicked up again and he smiled more outwardly, mouth curving up at the corners. Then his expression grew unhappy. "But I don't like to drink alcohol. My brother drinks."

Chuck didn't really know what to say, so he slouched forward and reached out to take Michael's hand away from his face, and laced their fingers together. He beamed at him, comfortingly he hoped, and got a tender little crinkle of the eyes in return. He played with Michael's fingers. Murmured, "I used to have a little bit of a problem—not significant, exactly... Well I mean, it's always significant, isn't it? I dunno. Alcoholism is like a family thing, you know? Kind of a small problem." He ran his fingertips over Michael's knuckles. "Sometimes I have just a little bit. I try to be careful." He shook his head, half-smiling. "Anyway, just a glass is usually okay, you know?"

"Yes..." Michael caught Chuck's wrist and moved to kiss his palm. He grinned. Barely nipped the skin at Chuck's wrist. "You're kind."

Chuck scoffed. "How am I kind?" He pretended not to notice the little love bite.

Michael shook his head and scooted his chair around the circumference of the table so he could sit just a little closer to Chuck. "I don't know, I just think you're kind." He rested his hand lightly on Chuck's knee and kissed him.

It was then, of course, when the waitress reappeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and cleared her throat. "Um... Sorry, I'm not interrupting, am I?" She smiled as Chuck and Michael pulled apart. "I have the wine list."

She held out the narrow little menu to Chuck, who took it with a red face and a stuttered _Thank you_.

"Would you like me to come back again in a few minutes, or do you already have an idea of what you want?"

Chuck scratched the back of his neck, trying to ignore Michael's hand on his leg. It stayed on his knee, perfectly innocent, but it was very warm and he couldn't help but fixate on its presence. He hummed. "Yeah, uh—just some champagne? Just a glass of like... the cheapest one."

"Of course! I'll be right back with that." She bounced away, with the wine list in hand.

Michael hid a smirk and murmured into Chuck's neck, "You didn't have to order the cheapest, you know."

Chuck jostled him with his leg. "I don't know anything about champagne!" He pushed at Michael until Michael straightened up, and Chuck rested his head on Michael's shoulder. "For all I know, their cheapest could be forty dollars, and I already looked like a dumbass anyway, so it doesn't matter."

"Oh, I don't think you looked like a dumbass at all."

Chuck rolled his eyes. "Of course you don't. You were busy being _embarrassing_. I can't believe she showed up right then. I hate you."

Michael snorted, kissing the top of Chuck's head. "It's not _that_ embarrassing."

"Says you."

"Says I."

The waitress showed up again with a bottle and a flute and set it front of Chuck. "Are you sure you'd only like a single glass?" She lifted the bottle encouragingly, with a grin. "I can just leave this here on ice with you."

"Please, no." Chuck shook his head as he sat more properly. "I'm really strict about what I drink. Just this one is my limit."

"Oh, low alcohol tolerance?"

Chuck sighed. "Opposite. I'm fine with this."

"Oh—alright. Well, your food should be finished very quickly."

"Thank you." Chuck covered his eyes when she left, and let out a long sigh. "She's so cheerful. I feel rude."

Michael took his hand. He kissed his cheek and dropped his voice so he could whisper in Chuck's ear, "You weren't rude at all." He tried for a soft smile, but looked a little like he wanted to laugh. He shook his head and let go of Chuck's hand to wrap his arm around his shoulders, tugging him close. Chuck snorted and let himself be jostled into Michael's side.

He sipped at his champagne.

"If I try to get more than two drinks total, remind me that two is my limit."

Michael frowned. "Do you think you'll try to order more?"

"No. But just in case." Chuck shrugged. He let out a soft breath and shifted a little closer to Michael.

"You don't want to take any chances, hm?"

"Precisely." Chuck wrinkled his nose. "I've been known to do dumb things sometimes."

The waitress came by with their food and a little pitcher of water to refill Michael's cup. She bounced away with a grin. Chuck poked at his pasta. He was hungry, but... He just didn't really feel like eating. He felt strangely nervous and queasy, for no reason, even though he'd been fine before. Maybe the fact that he was sitting in an expensive restaurant drinking cheap champagne that didn't taste cheap at all was getting to him. He rubbed his eyes.

Michael looked up from stirring his soup and frowned. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

Perhaps a small untruth, but Chuck didn't feel _awful_. Just... off. Michael, of course, immediately seemed to catch the white lie and gave Chuck a look like a parent would give a small child who insists they're fine with a high fever. He caught Chuck's eye and said, "You're not fine. You look like you're about to throw up."

"Yeah." Chuck set his fork down. "I think I'm gonna be right back." Chuck wished he could run, but in such a fancy establishment, he forced himself to walk as quickly as possible to the bathroom. He locked himself into a stall and sat on the floor by the toilet—probably a bad idea as far as hygiene went, but oh well.

At their table, Michael sat frowning to himself. To follow Chuck, or not to follow Chuck? Simple choice. He pushed his chair back and stood, and hurried to the bathroom. He sighed as he slipped through the door, and made a bee-line for the only occupied stall.

"Chuck," He knocked on the stall door. "Are you alright? Did you...?"

"No, I didn't barf." Chuck opened the door and sat back down on the floor. He stared up at Michael miserably, forehead creased and mouth turned down, face pale. He looked away.

Michael crouched down beside him. He reached his hand out and pressed the backs of his fingers against Chuck's forehead. A little too warm. "I'm going to ask for something to put our food in and then we're taking you home, okay?"

"Okay..." Chuck rubbed a hand across his face. He groaned, as Michael stood, and at the last minute, muttered, "I'm sorry, Michael."

"No, no." Michael stopped before the bathroom door. "Don't apologize. You can't help it. I'll be right back, okay?"

"Yeah."

And he left.

Chuck pulled his legs up, sticking his face into his knees with a long sigh. He almost wished he really would throw up, but after the initial mini-panic, he'd realized the nausea was the kind that left you feeling ill and roiling but never amounted to anything else. (Or, if it did, it took hours and hours.) He felt like shit, though. Shit that had been stepped on by a horse. Too hot but freezing at the same time and sick to his stomach, with a hard ache starting up in his skull. He dreaded the next twenty-four hours.

Michael reappeared after a few minutes, with all of their stuff in a paper bag labeled with the restaurant's name. He held his hand out for Chuck. Led him out of the bathroom, arm wrapped around his waist and gripping tight at his hip. He stopped walking after a moment, and cocked his head thoughtfully.

"What? You look confused." Chuck rubbed at his forehead.

Michael stepped out of the way of a tall woman and said, "You're unsteady. I can carry you."

"What?"

"I can carry you. On my back." Michael pulled Chuck aside. "It'll be easier than trying to support you, I think."

He looked so concerned and determined that Chuck just couldn't refuse. "Fine," he muttered. "But if you drop me I'm breaking up with you."

Michael snorted and crouched down so Chuck could climb onto his back. He lifted him with ease, and when Chuck made a tiny, distressed noise and buried his face in Michael's neck, Michael held very still. "Alright? Not going to get sick on me, are you?"

Chuck shook his head and wrapped his arms around Michael's neck. "Long as you don't bounce me around I'll be fine." He took a deep breath—found his nose filled with the sharp smell of Michael's cologne. Orange. Similar to his aftershave but sweeter, and subtler. And luckily it didn't make him feel any more ill. He closed his eyes and focused on that smell, with the slight saltiness and fish scent underneath that always hung around Michael's skin, and tried to ignore his churning stomach and his throbbing head and his goosebumps.

He ended up falling asleep on Michael's back. Or passing out. He wasn't quite sure on that count.

He woke up to Michael saying his name very softly. Blinking, he sat up, and immediately regretted it as a wave of nausea hit him. He lay right back down with a whine. It was dark. He reached out blindly until his hand connected with Michael's face, and let his fingers drift across Michael's cheek and down to his shoulder. "We home?" He squinted at Michael. He could barely see the side of his face, highlighted by red light from the setting sun.

"Shhh, yeah." Michael held his hand to Chuck's forehead and murmured, "We're at my house." He replaced his hand with his mouth for split second, gentle and warm. "I need you to help me get you changed, okay? Into something more comfortable."

Chuck nodded weakly.

Michael helped him sit up and worked on unbuttoning his shirt. Everything came off, piece by piece, until Chuck sat in his boxers. He couldn't even bring himself to feel embarrassed. Too tired and shivery and awful to bother. He tried to help Michael out, but really only succeeded in almost knocking them both over when Michael tried to get flannel pants onto him. But Michael laughed softly and praised him, and coaxed him into a worn t-shirt before laying him back down.

"Do you want anything, Chuck? I'm going to make you some ginger tea."

Chuck smiled, barely, with his eyes shut. "You called me Chuck."

"Yes, I did. Now please, answer the question."

A sleepy sigh, and Chuck mumbled a half-intelligible, "'M okay."

Michael pushed his hands back through Chuck's hair and bent down to kiss his forehead again. "I'll be right back." He straightened up and left the room.

Chuck drifted off.

The next time he woke, it was to stumble down the dark hallway to the bathroom so he could throw up. And as awful as that was, after he'd rinsed his mouth out something like five times, and used Michael's painfully minty mouth wash, he felt a lot better. Still sick, but better.

Michael came up the stairs just as Chuck stepped out of the bathroom, and his forehead creased with worry. He held a steaming mug in one hand, but wrapped his free arm around Chuck and pulled him into his chest. Stroked his back and whispered encouragements in his ear. After a few seconds, he led Chuck back into the bedroom and sat beside him on the bed, pressing the mug into his hands.

Chuck thought the ginger tea tasted foul, but he had to admit it seemed to help fairly quickly. And it was warm, and soothing. Just like Michael.

He drank all of it, even though the weird spicy flavor didn't appeal to him, and used the bathroom before letting Michael tuck him into bed. Michael lay down beside him, on top of the sheets, and wrapped him up in his arms—but not too tightly—and sang under his breath. It sounded like something by The Postal Service. Whatever it was, it was calming and sweet, and Michael's voice filled up Chuck's head as he slipped into unconsciousness.

* * *

"Are you feeling better?"

Sunlight filtered in through the kitchen windows, and Chuck rubbed at his eyes as he stepped through the doorway. "I'm alright." He found himself enfolded in Michael's arms before he could say anything else. He melted into the embrace and smiled. "I'm super tired but... I dunno. Not so gross. I could _probably_ eat something."

"Good, good..." Michael still held him. "Small things, then. Toast? I'm making fried potatoes, and I can leave aside some of the plain boiled pieces for you. I can make some plain eggs too." He pulled back just enough to push at an errant curl trying to flop into Chuck's eyes. Let his hand drift down to cup Chuck's face.

Chuck squinted in seemingly deep thought, turning his cheek into Michael's palm. "Maybe not the toast." He pulled away—moved toward the kitchen island and sat down on one of the stools. "But potatoes sound fine.."

Michael trailed after Chuck. He rubbed a hand down his back. "Tell me if you need anything." He stepped away toward the stove, where a pot sat and bubbled. He walked back and forth, adjusting things here and there. Grabbed some eggs from the fridge and cracked them straight into the pan.

The kitchen began to smell quite pleasant, but stifling, so Chuck stood up and made his way over to the window, pushing it open and breathing in the fresh sea air. He closed his eyes and propped his chin on folded arms on the windowsill. Listened to Michael hum as he cooked. Chuck turned his face into the gentle sunlight and sighed. He liked this. Despite being sick, he liked standing in Michael's kitchen and listening to the quiet sounds of domesticity. He felt like he could stand there forever and never worry about anything ever again. Just focus on the clink of silverware and the rush of the waves and the slight breeze and Michael's murmured singing.

Singing...

"Michael, you never told me you could sing." Chuck turned around and raised his eyebrows at Michael. "How come you're suddenly all musical?"

Michael took a moment before he responded, as he poked at the potatoes in the frying pan. Eventually, "I suppose I'm more comfortable around you than before." He glanced at Chuck with a slight smile.

"Ah..." Chuck cracked a smile himself, teeth showing. He looked down at his bare feet on the wooden floors.

"You're blushing."

"I'm not blushing!" Chuck glared at Michael. "I'm feverish!"

Michael laughed under his breath and muttered, "I'm sure that must be it."

Chuck stuck out his tongue. Michael just shook his head, smiling like a saint, and started dumping food onto plates. He urged Chuck to sit down and set some chopped up boiled potatoes and plain scrambled eggs in front of him, while he himself sat with a plateful of fried potatoes and an omelet. "Please, eat. You know I think you're precious, especially when you blush."

"You're a weirdo, you know that?" Chuck picked at his food. "Very weird. Super weird."

Michael raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Well this weirdo cares about you."

Chuck flushed pink and kept his eyes on his breakfast.

* * *

Pretty soon, the fourth of July rolled around.

Chuck pulled on his sweatshirt, as he stepped out onto the carport, illuminated by the porch light and not much else. The moon was a sliver in the sky, and the edges of the horizon barely glowed orange, over the ocean. He took his time walking—the breeze felt nice against his face, cool and soft and salty. He stumbled, once, when he neglected to notice a large rock just beside the sidewalk. He caught his balance though, sand shifting under his sneakers, and made sure to pay more attention in the dark. He even put his glasses on.

When he knocked on Michael's door, no one answered, so he let himself in and kicked off his shoes. Probably, Michael was still at the store. He'd told Chuck he'd be out of the house doing some grocery shopping and the like until pretty late. Though, to Chuck it seemed like maybe 9:30 was pushing it. He sat down on the couch and stretched his socked feet out in front of the cold fireplace. Wiggled his toes with a yawn. (He'd woken up too early, and tried to take a nap but... He never managed to actually fall asleep when he lay down for naps. Just ended up awake in bed with his eyes closed for two hours, and eventually got a headache.)

The front door creaked open, and Chuck looked over. "You need any help carrying stuff?"

Michael looked up, only a little surprised to see Chuck. He held quite a few bags of groceries and various other things, which he set down on the floor. "I'm fine, I think. Thank you, though, Mr. Shurley." He smiled as he took off his sandals. "You can put the food in the refrigerator if you'd like, though." He disappeared outside for a moment, as Chuck rose to his feet, and popped back inside with one more bag.

"Fireworks?" Chuck grabbed a few of the lighter grocery bags and tilted his head.

Michael lifted the bag. "It's only sparklers. The fireworks show starts in about an hour." He followed Chuck to the kitchen with the rest of the groceries.

Chuck nodded. "Cool."

Together, they put any perishable food into the fridge—some lettuce, turkey burgers, that kind of thing. And a small watermelon. Chuck sat at the island when they'd gotten everything into cupboards, and watched Michael cook dinner. In the living room, Michael had put on a Cat Power record and sang very quietly along with it, almost inaudible under the loud popping of the oil in the pan. Chuck grinned.

When Michael set a plate in front of Chuck, with a neatly garnished turkey burger and a side of potato chips, he asked, "What are you smiling about?"

"You." Chuck poked him in the shoulder.

Michael blinked. He ducked his head and smiled. Sat close beside Chuck with his own plate, letting their knees bump a little, as he avoided Chuck's eyes. "You're terrible." He picked at his food. Finally, he looked up at Chuck, still smiling softly, and opened his mouth to say something, but shook his head and just leaned over to kiss Chuck's cheek instead. Chuck caught Michael's face between his hands before he could pull away, and kissed him back—on the lips, of course. Michael sighed against Chuck's mouth and took one of his hands in his own.

"Eat your dinner, Mr. Shurley." He drew back, smirking.

Chuck raised his eyebrows. "Well, okay, _Mr. Milton_." He grinned.

Michael shoved at Chuck's shoulder, and kept his eyes on his plate. Chuck laughed and leaned against him as he ate.

They finished with little time to spare—Michael grabbed one of his older quilts—"The first quilt I made, when I was nineteen," he said, and Chuck laughed and replied, "Man, when I was that age all I did was smoke week and fail math."—slightly crooked and worn, and took Chuck by the hand, leading him outside. He pulled him along down the beach. They ducked under the little rope-hung sign that said "Private Property: No Beach Access," moving toward a slowly converging crowd of people. The air filled with murmurs, louder the closer the got. A few children ran around shrieking. Some teenagers stood near the waves, playing with sparklers.

Chuck spotted a nice, clear area and pointed. Michael nodded, squeezing his hand, and they walked over. The quilt went down on the sand, and Michael pinned it down with his water bottle and a few decent-sized rocks. He pulled Chuck down to sit beside him on the quilt and wrapped his arms around him. Chuck leaned into his side.

He pulled a little packet of cheese crackers from his sweatshirt pocket and struggled to open it. It wouldn't go. The little nicks in the packaging wouldn't tear. Michael watched him wrestle with the plastic for a few seconds before rolling his eyes and taking the crackers. He opened them with his teeth and handed them back to Chuck.

"Show-off."

Michael snorted.

A whistling noise filled the air, and people began to fall silent. Loud pops and cracks, and the fireworks began with a succession of colorful flashes.

Chuck snuggled closer to Michael as they both craned their heads back to watch.

A big red and gold one burst in the sky with a bone-shaking boom. The light rained down, hissing.

A series of loud bangs, like gunfire, filled the air and made Chuck flinch. Michael's arm tightened about him and he whispered, "Scared?"

Chuck couldn't see his face clearly, but he could just hear the smug little smile in his voice. "I just got startled, that's all!" He jabbed Michael with his elbow. Michael laughed under his breath. Leaned closer and kissed Chuck, as another couple of big booming fireworks went off and lit them up with red, white and blue. Chuck raised one hand against the back of Michael's neck and ventured a little tongue. Michael froze for a moment, but mostly from surprise and not disgust or unwillingness, it seemed. After a second he relaxed and parted his lips just a tiny bit. It was enough for Chuck, who took the kiss in a very French direction—though he kept it gentle and delicate.

Hesitantly, Michael reciprocated. He leaned on his hand, and the sand shifted under his fingers, as fireworks filled up the sky. He opened his mouth more and tried to meet Chuck halfway. It didn't work very well. He felt inexperienced and clumsy, but Chuck just huffed out a quiet laugh and pulled back to whisper, "You taste like turkey."

Michael let his head drop to Chuck's shoulder with a snort, face hot. Chuck stroked the short hairs at the back of his neck. "You've never done that before, huh?"

Michael shook his head. "Not often."

Chuck smiled. He wrapped his arm around Michael, who shifted to rest his cheek on Chuck's shoulder. They watched the end of the fireworks show like that, all leaned together on top of a ratty blanket in the sand, lit up by sparks and flashes.

After, in the dark, they walked along the beach hand-in-hand. The quilt was draped around Chuck's shoulders: a patchwork cape shielding him from the wind off the waves.

Once they were inside and had gotten their shoes off, Michael moved fast and picked Chuck up, bridal style. Chuck yelped and wrapped his arm around Michael's neck. "If you drop me, I'm breaking up with you!"

"You always say that, but I'll never put you down."

Michael carried him as far as the stairs before letting him down and Chuck said, "Liar."

He grinned and kissed Michael's cheek and held his hand as they walked up the spiral steps. Made his way down the hallway backwards, with Michael tenderly kissing at his face. They fell into bed, but not in a sexy way. Just kissed a little longer and lay down together. Michael nuzzled Chuck, pressing his face into the older man's neck and running a hand up his side. He kissed his stubbly jaw. Chuck hugged him tight.

* * *

On Tuesday, Michael and Chuck spent time on the beach.

Michael lay on his old quilt, propped on his elbows, wearing a pair of white-framed sunglasses. He was fully clothed, in capris and a wifebeater. He watched Chuck wander down the beach—Chuck was hunting for shells, with a bucket in one hand and a little plastic shovel in the other. He stooped down occasionally to look at the ground, and sometimes put something in his bucket. Eventually, he walked over to Michael and set his bucket down in the sand by Michael's feet. He took off his glasses, and put them in their case, and put that in the pocket of his cargo shorts.

"You look warm." Chuck grinned down at Michael.

Pulling his sunglasses off, Michael squinted up at him. He smiled, a bit. "So do you." He held his hand out so Chuck could help him up, but when Chuck's fingers wrapped around his, he gave a firm tug. Chuck stumbled and dropped down onto Michael, barely catching himself at the last minute so they didn't crack skulls—he held himself over Michael with a scowl, fingers in the sand.

Michael pulled him down by the shoulders. Kissed his forehead and murmured, "You're light."

"I'm not light! I'm average." Chuck settled more comfortably on top of Michael, pressing his ear against his chest. He could hear the sound of Michael breathing, and his steady heartbeat. His other ear filled with the gentle rush of the breeze. When Michael laughed, it rumbled pleasantly against Chuck's skull. He closed his eyes against the bright sun.

After a few minutes of lying about wordlessly, Michael sat up, dislodging Chuck. "Let's go eat." He smiled.

Chuck grumbled, "Don't wanna move," but went inside with Michael more than willingly. They ate watermelon for lunch, and leftovers. And after that, settled down on the couch, in front of the cold fireplace. Chuck tucked his feet underneath him. The springs creaked, as he snatched a book off of the side table. Beside him, Michael took up his cross-stitch. Chuck leaned against Michael while he read—Isaac Asimov's _The Stars, Like Dust_.

A few pages in, however, Chuck found himself bored out of his mind. All of the characters (except Arta) pissed him off, and the story just dragged through politics and arguments between each person. He closed the book and tossed it to the side. Began to drop light little kisses along Michael's shoulder, and neck. Michael ignored him, for the most part, focused on his embroidery. (A little blue house.)

After several more feathery kisses, though, Michael leaned away to set his cross-stitch down in the basket, and then turned to face Chuck. He raised his eyebrows with a mildly amused smile. "Affectionate, are we?"

"You're just very kissable." Chuck grinned. He moved to Michael's lap, straddling him, and bumped their foreheads together. Michael rolled his eyes, but his hands settled on Chuck's hips. Chuck pressed their lips together. He teased Michael's mouth open—ran his hands down Michael's chest and briefly mouthed at his pulse before kissing him on the lips again. He slipped his fingers under the edge of Michael's shirt.

Michael wrapped his fingers around Chuck's wrists with a slight frown. Chuck nodded and moved his hands to the back of the couch instead, as he kissed Michael.

They kissed for a while—Chuck didn't exactly keep track, but he knew that Michael's mouth was very warm and lips were very soft.

Almost as if of their own free will, Chuck's hands drifted back down. This time, Michael let Chuck push his shirt up and feel his stomach and chest. He even slipped his own hands up the back of Chuck's shirt, tentatively, and flattened his palms against Chuck's shoulder blades. Chuck ducked his head, leaving a trail of kisses from Michael's throat to his ribcage—he would have kissed clear down to his belly but he couldn't bend that way.

Michael twitched with each kiss. Laughed a little, under his breath, each time Chuck kissed his chest or his collarbone. "Your beard tickles."

Chuck laughed and brought their lips together again. "You tryin' to tell me I need to shave?" he mumbled. It came out muffled against Michael's mouth.

"No," Michael said. "No, I like the 'haven't shaved in five days' look."

He grinned, just a bit, bright and surprising and sweet. Chuck decided to kiss his smile. Michael made a noise so soft as to be almost inaudible, and sighed, and half-closed his eyes as Chuck deepened the kiss and reached up to run his hands through Michael's hair. He coaxed Michael's head back, and lowered his mouth to Michael's neck, and went about sucking a red mark into the smooth skin of Michael's throat, hands wandering.

Michael fisted his hands in Chuck's shirt and breathed sharply through his nose. He swallowed. Made a quiet noise. Shifted under Chuck's weight, and whispered, "Stop, stop." His voice shook a little.

Chuck paused, one hand pressed firm against Michael's chest. He drew back enough to meet Michael's eyes and frowned softly, worried. "What's wrong? Did I hurt you?"

"You didn't—" Michael sighed. He squeezed his eyes shut, and kept his head tilted against the back of the couch. After a tense silence, he whispered, "Just... too much."

"Too much?" Chuck's eyes widened. "Oh! Oh, okay. Sorry. I—I won't—" He held his hands up, and smiled as reassuringly as he knew how. "I'll behave. Promise." His expression softened. He moved one hand to Michael's face, gently, and stroked his thumb across his cheek. Michael blinked his eyes open and looked at him. He seemed overwhelmed.

Dropping his voice to a whisper, Chuck said, "I'm sorry, Michael," and, "I won't touch you any way you don't like, I swear."

Michael wrapped his arms around Chuck and tugged him down into a warm embrace. Chuck returned his hug, carefully.

When a few seconds had passed, and Michael seemed more relaxed, Chuck asked, "Are you a virgin, Michael?"

Michael was silent for a moment. Chuck thought he wouldn't answer at first, but then—"I'm not."

The way he said it seemed like he regretted it. He spoke it like a foul thing, and tightened his arms around Chuck. Chuck pulled back enough to see his face. Framed Michael's jaw between his palms and murmured, "Hey, look at me." Michael met his eyes, hesitant, and Chuck said, "Do you need to talk about it? Because I—I can listen." He kept eye contact. Didn't look away. Just searched Michael's face for some kind of response.

Finally, Michael nodded, averting his eyes.

Chuck pushed himself off of Michael's lap and sat beside him, drawing his legs up and resting his chin on his knees. He waited for Michael to speak. There was silence for a long while. The rustle of the breeze through the open windows, and the rush of the waves. Eventually Michael leaned forward, elbows digging into his thighs, and let out a quiet breath. He rubbed his face and said, "I don't want you to think I was ever assaulted. I wasn't. Thank God for small miracles."

He paused.

"You know how I mentioned I was engaged?"

Chuck nodded.

"Yeah, well. Like I said—it didn't go well. My mother loves us, but she's strict and tries to control the family as best she can. So she arranged marriages between our family and another, less wealthy family." He scratched at the back of his neck as he gathered his thoughts. "The Winchesters. Good blood, hard times. I'm not sure why she chose a family with only sons instead of one with daughters, but I suppose she figured that if her sons liked boys then at least she could control the boys they married." He laughed, bitter and quiet. "I was paired up with Dean. Something to do with being a good influence on him. Nick went with Dean's younger brother Sam. I don't know why. As far as age differences go, me with Sam and Nick with Dean might have made more sense. My brother's five years older than _you_, and Sam is only a year my senior."

Chuck pulled a face. "That's almost twenty years apart!"

Michael nodded. "I know. But... they actually got along really well. Nick was... infatuated, actually. Enamored. He constantly brought Sam little gifts and slowly got Sam to at least be a little fond of him, if not love him." He shrugged. "But—well, this is supposed to be about me, isn't it?" He looked down at his bare feet. They were still a little sandy.

For a few moments, he said nothing.

Then, "I was twenty when I met Dean, and I'd never slept with anyone. I'd dated maybe one person before him, and that was all the experience I had. He taught me how to kiss. Though he didn't do a particularly good job, obviously."

Chuck made a noise of protest. "You're good at kissing."

Michael raised his eyebrows. Chuck sighed conceded that, "Okay, maybe not so much when we first started dating. You learn quick, though." He smiled.

Michael laughed under his breath. "Thank you." He took Chuck's hand. "In any case," he said. "for the first year he kept everything fairly tame and... I suppose, you could say he went by the book. A weekly date night. Flowers. He _wooed_ me, essentially. And it worked. I was... not in love, but at least besotted." He shook his head and closed his eyes for a moment. "The second year involved a lot of... wheedling. He was the type to sleep around, when he was single. He wasn't used to someone like me, who never put out, always made him go home by a certain time... He started to try to stay over more often. Got a little more adventurous with his hands. When I told him I wanted to wait until after we were married he was not happy. But he laid off for a while. I told him I wouldn't mind if he slept with other people, until then, but he said no. He was loyal, you see. Would never cheat on a partner, no matter what. Would never force them either."

"Well, when I was going on twenty-two—Dean was twenty-five, by the way—he began, slowly, to try to convince me again. And by this time I'd do anything to please him. To me, he'd hung the sun, and I wanted to make him happy." Michael took a deep breath. "I was a foolish boy."

Chuck squeezed Michael's hand, frowning. "What happened?" He ran his thumb over Michael's knuckles.

Michael gathered his words about him. "I agreed, once. He wanted to stay over for the night, so I let him. He talked me into bed, and I was dizzy and a little tipsy from wine. But even though I loved him, and wanted to please him, I was completely terrified. Never had I done anything remotely sexual with anyone. The closest I'd come was accidentally elbowing my girlfriend's breast in freshman year of college."

At that, Chuck laughed a little bit. Michael smiled at him. But his expression grew more serious again. He wrapped his arm around Chuck's shoulder and pulled him against his side. "So... we both got naked. Somewhat of a prerequisite. And I was so scared, and I couldn't look at Dean. And I... had trouble, we'll say. Trouble performing." He snorted. "Dean reassured me. 'Oh,' he said, 'it's just the alcohol. Once you're sober you'll get it up like a real champ'—those were his exact words, I swear." Michael rolled his eyes. "I took his word for it. But still, we were in bed without any clothes on, and he was just... right there. You know? And I felt bad, so I offered... I think I offered a hand job at first but he sweet-talked me into oral sex." He paused, the corners of his mouth twitching. "It was a disaster and I ended up having to take a shower while he nearly collapsed with laughter. Most embarrassing night of my life."

"Aww." Chuck smooched Michael's cheek. He patted Michael's chest, leaning his head on his shoulder. "So then what?"

"Then it gets a little less amusing." Michael shook his head. "For a month or so, we continued with the same setup as before. No staying later than nine o'clock, nothing below the belt, no sex. And inevitably, Dean grew impatient again. He said it was a shame for a boy as attractive as me to be a virgin, and honestly..." Michael paused. "Dean is a good guy, and he didn't mean to make me feel bad, but I did. I felt in the wrong. So I said... if he waited until the night before the wedding, that I would. And at that point, I'd honestly begun to grow a little tired of him. I loved him, but he spent so much of his time drinking and eating poorly, and he teased me mercilessly about the smallest things. I tried to clean his car once and he got angry at me for dusting the dashboard. 'Cause no one touches his baby. I think he loved the car, and his little brother, more than he loved me."

"So we waited, just a little longer. For three months. I spent the entire week before the ceremony researching ways to prepare, and I borrowed some of my brother's porn—oh, he laughed at that. And I did all this, and bought condoms, and lube, and you know—the kinds of things I might need. Better over-prepared than not prepared at all. I even tried a few... things. With myself." Michael's face reddened. He bit his lip before continuing. "I didn't like any of it very much—the porn put me off and the masturbation usually left me feeling unhappy and dissatisfied, so when the night before the wedding came and Dean had me underneath him and I... I tolerated it, but I didn't like it one bit. When we finished, I..." Michael grimaced. "I panicked. I made him leave and I skipped town."

Chuck raised his eyebrows. "You left him at the altar?"

"No. I told him I didn't want to marry him and then I ran away. More like I left him to explain to my mother and everyone else that the wedding was off. I was already in Indiana by the time my brother called the next day. He screamed at me. I was afraid they'd come after me, and he _did_ threaten to track me down, and make me go back, but after a long time, Nick stopped yelling. I was crying at that point—something Nick knew I _rarely_ did—on the motel room floor, clutching my cellphone to my face. And he got very quiet. I felt... very pathetic, and small. And he was silent for so long I thought he'd hung up, but then he told me he wasn't mad anymore. He said he would give me some money. He offered to buy me a plane ticket to anywhere in the world, so I said, 'I want to see the Pacific' and he bought me a ticket to Oregon."

"And now you're here."

Michael nodded. "I've been here for the past three years. The first year, Nick and Sam kept me updated on their perfect married life. I was jealous but I never told them. But then... I don't know what happened, exactly. My mother said something about Nick 'using,' and Nick got arrested for spousal abuse, vandalism, drug possession, and public intoxication." Michael shook his head. "Sam divorced him as soon as he could and moved back to Kansas. I guess things had been rocky between them for a while. Sam and I keep in touch, now and then, with email."

"_Wow_."

"Yeah." Michael sighed. He rubbed his face, leaning back against the couch. "At least I had graduated early."

Chuck made a face. "No kidding." He chewed on his lip, and swung his legs up onto Michael's lap, curling closer to him. "So are you...? I mean... You don't like sex, then? Is there a word for that?"

Michael smiled gently at him. Lifted a hand to push a stray hair from Chuck's forehead. "I'm asexual."

"Ohhh, I kinda know what that is. I think."

"Yes. Well, I only learned about it last Christmas. Sam, my brother Gabriel, a woman named Jessica, Dean, Dean's wife and Dean's son all flew over to visit me. And Sam took me to the side, one day before they left for home, and he showed me a few websites. Helped me figure some things out and learn that there's nothing wrong with me. It was... a relief to know I'm not defective. I like to be able to classify myself. I'd rather give a definitive answer of 'sex-repulsed homoromantic asexual' than an 'I don't know.'" Michael paused. "That is... I know that some people don't like labels. And it's understandable. I, however, do appreciate knowing what to call myself."

Chuck nodded. "I get that." He stroked his hand down Michael's side. "So are both Dean and Sam bi?" He glanced up at Michael, who smiled.

"Sam told me he's... pansexual and panromantic. That he doesn't care about gender, he just cares about love. I thought that was interesting. I've learned a lot thanks to him, about things I had never been exposed to in my strangely sheltered family." Michael shrugged. "Dean, though, is indeed bisexual. Sam is also in a polyamorous relationship with Jessica and Gabriel. He's very well-educated and confident in his sexuality, and I admire him very much." Michael pulled Chuck into his lap and wrapped his arms around him. "Perhaps you can meet him the next time they visit."

"Maybe." Chuck nuzzled against Michael's neck.

They both lapsed into content silence, and Michael fiddled with the curly hair at the back of Chuck's head as he stared at the empty fireplace. After a few minutes, he whispered, "How do you feel about a nap?" Chuck snorted but pushed himself out of Michael's lap and stood and stretched his arms high above his head with a little squeaky sound.

"Sounds good to me," he said. He pulled Michael to his feet and they went upstairs to cuddle on top of the sheets and sleep.

* * *

"What day is it?"

Michael looked up from the piece of rope he fiddled with. Took a moment to steer the sailboat away from a rock and said, "July ninth. Why?" He glanced at the sky.

"Oh, I was just curious. I always get the days mixed up. You know? Like... like what day is it, Monday? Friday? I never know."

Smiling, Michael nodded. "It's Wednesday."

"See? Totally off. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

The sunlight glittered off the waves, as Michael sailed. A seagull kept decent pace with the boat, as it went out a little further. Water lapped at the red sides, softly slapping and whispering. Chuck leaned out enough to trail his fingers in the saltwater. It was cool against his skin. A little sticky. Left a salt film along the creases of his fingertips, and he smiled. The seagull yelled at them. Chuck waved at it and wiped his hand on his jeans.

With his face turned into the sun, Michael grinned.

Chuck almost didn't catch it, but there it was. Broad and easy and bright. Just like the day itself.

"You know what the sky is like?" Michael asked. When Chuck only shook his head, he continued. "The sky is like the sea. It's blue—" Chuck laughed and Michael shot him a half-hearted glare. He said, "Shush! It is. It's blue, and it can be cold or it can be warm, but the color remains the same. Everything is about the lighting. And at night they are both full of stars. Stars high in space, or stars from the lights on boats and little glowing creatures." He shook his head, eyes on the waves. "And they both stretch out vaster than anything, full of little systems of life and light, and you can look at one or the other and say 'I am in love.'" He fell silent, and maybe he blushed a little, or maybe his face was just flushed from the breeze off the water.

Unsure exactly how to respond, Chuck laughed under his breath and looked up at the thin clouds wisping across the sky. "I guess you're right." He closed his eyes and let the sunlight cover him. "It _is_ pretty easy to love them."

"Glad you think so, too."

They were quiet for a while, with just the sound of the waves and the occasional chirping call from gulls twisting overhead. The sails flapped. Chuck reached into his bag—they'd stuffed it with things they might need. Food, mostly. Homemade bread and rose lemonade (sweetened with some apples and pears Michael had juiced the day before, instead of sugar), and some crackers, and water. Chuck opened one of the plastic bottles of lemonade—better than any other container—and sipped at it, curiously. Not bad. Not nearly as sweet as he was used to, as far as lemonade went, but he liked it.

Eventually, Michael spoke. All he said was, "Could you hand me some bread?"

Chuck took out one of the thick slices of oat bread and passed it to Michael, who gnawed on it as he looked out over the waves. He let the boat move in the direction it wanted, one eye on his compass. Loosened the sails so they caught less wind and moved slower.

"It's strange..." Michael frowned at his bread. "Not the food. It's strange to be... like this. I'm so used to being alone." He glanced at Chuck. "This is nice. Being with you is nice." He lapsed back into a soft sort of silence.

"Yeah?" Chuck honestly had no idea how to respond. He fiddled with the cap on his bottle of lemonade and chewed on his lip. "Um—I like... I like being with you, too. Uh... Yeah." Well, he could have worded it less awkwardly, but... It was true.

Michael smiled. "You're sweet."

"Not so much..." Chuck blushed.

Michael just shook his head.

They stayed on the water a little while longer, until clouds began to slink into the sky, tall and gray and ominous. The wind picked up as well, so Michael worked on turning them around and heading back eastward. They made pretty good time. Michael dragged his boat up the shore, ever the bad boat owner, with Chuck wading through the waves alongside it. Little drops of rain began to spatter down, and a cloud covered the sun. Luckily, it was still a little warm. For the moment, at least. Chuck helped Michael pull the tarp over his boat, after they put the sails down, and took his hand. Michael kissed his forehead.

Hand-in-hand, as the rain grew harder, they went inside.

"I'm all sandy!" Chuck wiped the sand off of his ankles. He frowned. "I don't want to get sand all over the place."

Michael laughed. "Why do you think I keep a towel on the coatrack?" He tossed the threadbare old towel to Chuck, and said, "Just get as much off as you can, and then go ahead and wash your feet in the tub upstairs, if you want."

Chuck did all that. Rinsed his feet, sitting on the edge of the bath tub with his jeans rolled up to his knees, and watched the water rush from the faucet. Michael joined him, after a few minutes. Their pinky fingers brushed lightly. Michael wiggled his toes in the warm water and said, "I've started the fire. It got cold out pretty fast, hm? But we can sit on the couch by the flames."

"That sounds nice."

Michael kissed Chuck and turned off the water. "Come on."

After drying their feet, they went back downstairs. The fire in the hearth sent out a soft, warm glow, augmented a little by the lights strung along the ceiling. Michael sat on the couch, and Chuck nestled up beside him, tucking his feet under his bottom. He leaned his head on Michael's shoulder. "You know..." He spoke quietly, but Michael could hear him fine. "In all the pictures I've ever seen, beaches are all white sand and blue waves. No one ever told me it could be windy and cold and gray!" He snorted. "I guess, being from Portland, I really should have expected it. But all I'd ever seen was blue and white."

"But it's beautiful, don't you think?"

Chuck thought for a moment. He tilted his head to look out one of the wide windows on the south wall of the house. He could see the beach, and tall grass waving in the wind, and lavender. "It is." He huffed out a small, soft laugh, and murmured, "It's very beautiful."

Michael wrapped his arm around Chuck's waist.

* * *

Chuck stared at the ceiling, as he lay in bed. He was in his own bed, in his own home, for once, thinking about his books. His editor had emailed him that morning wondering why his latest book was taking such a long time. He couldn't give her the excuse that it was longer than a picture book, because it wasn't the first small chapter book he'd written. He sighed. On the one hand, he planned to go to Michael's the next day. On the other hand, he'd rather his editor didn't skin him alive, seeing as he had deadlines to adhere to.

Without thinking, he grabbed his cellphone from the bedside table and called Michael.

It only rang a few times before Michael picked up. "Hello? Chuck?"

"Oh—sorry, I forgot how late it was! Um." Chuck cleared his throat. "I'm not cancelling or anything, I just—tomorrow... Instead of going on a picnic or whatever you planned... um... I'm behind. On my work. And I was wondering if we could stay inside and do stuff? It's fine if you don't want to."

"Mr. Shurley." Ah. No longer worried. "It's fine. The weather is supposed to be rainy tomorrow, anyway. We'll have a nice day in, beside the fire."

Chuck grinned and let out a relieved puff of air. "Thank you. Sorry, again, about calling so late. Um... I didn't mean to scare you."

"It's alright, I promise." Michael paused. "Go to sleep."

"Oh—bye."

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight—sorry. Yeah. Night. Bye." Chuck hung up on Michael's fondly quiet laughter. He put his phone back, and crossed his arms over his face with a grumble. He sighed. Talking on the phone, even with people he felt close to, always got him even more tongue-tied than usual. He probably sounded like an idiot. Not much to do about that, though. He turned onto his side, stared at the shadows on the wall, and tried to fall asleep.

Of course, his phone chose that moment to buzz twice.

He let out a groan and twisted around so he could grab it. When he slid it open, he was greeted with Michael's face. A smiling selfie, and accompanying text: "Goodnight. Sleep well. See you tomorrow."

Chuck felt his cheeks heat up. He buried his face in his pillow, with a goofy grin, and lay there for a moment before texting back, "Thank you. Goodnight." He debated adding a heart, but the thought made him blush even more, so he left it off. Maybe another time. He waited a few moments to make sure no more replies would be forthcoming, and finally set his phone aside (maybe only a little disappointed when it didn't buzz again) so he could actually sleep.

* * *

"You're knitting." Chuck set his bag on the floor in front of the couch. "God, what _can't_ you do with a needle?"

Michael seemed to think for a minute, tilting his head back and stilling his fingers. He hummed. "You know, I don't believe there _is_ anything I can't do with a needle." He smirked. Set his scarf-in-progress aside to pull Chuck down into a hug. "Except maybe crochet. It's always escaped me for some reason." He pressed a kiss to the side of Chuck's face.

"Well, aren't we modest."

"I merely know what I am capable of."

Chuck snorted. He pulled his computer out of his bag and set it on his lap. While it booted up, he hummed to himself. Just a snippet of a song he didn't know very well. He leaned into Michael, using his shoulder as a headrest, and tapped at his keyboard distractedly. Already, he felt a little too warm, with his side against Michael's and the fireplace pouring heat toward them. But it was a pleasant kind of too-warm. Sleepy and comforting. Hopefully he wouldn't pass out in the middle of a sentence, or something, especially considering he'd ended up getting very little sleep the night before, after all. He continued to hum, off-key, and went through his documents.

Michael paused his knitting. The dark brown yarn piled in his lap and caught at bits of firelight, highlighting golden. "What are you singing?" He looked at Chuck with a curious little half-smile.

"Uh... Hang on." Chuck's mouth twisted, and he minimized his document to open iTunes. He knew the song, vaguely, knew the artist, but it escaped him at the moment. He sifted through his music—just one or two random albums he'd come across, and a profusion of stray songs. It took a few seconds, but he found the song and clicked play. "It's some uh... Norwegian guy or something. I think? Moddi." He smiled. "He's very cute."

Michael nodded. "You have a crush on him."

"What—no, I don't!" Chuck turned red and made a face. "I just like his music!"

Michael laughed. He kissed Chuck's cheek and took his hand. "It's okay. I know you like me the most."

Chuck tried to frown, but he smiled anyway, and let Michael lace their fingers together. "Maybe only a little," he muttered. "Since you hug me and stuff." He turned his face to Michael, so their noses brushed. "And you make me food."

"Oh, are those the only reasons?" Michael grinned. "I suppose that's good enough. I _do_ like to cook for you, after all."

"I _guess_ there are other reasons."

"You guess?" Michael shook his head, taking back up his needles. "You're terrible." But he kept smiling, as he poked at his yarn, and said, "I'm making this for you, so you aren't as chilled on the windier days. You always look so cold, I figured you might want a scarf." He eyed his stitches as he spoke, and bumped his leg lightly against Chuck's. "The wind goes right through you."

Still pink-faced, Chuck watched Michael knit. "You're too nice. Way too nice. Gosh, you're probably plotting to take over the world or something, aren't you? With how sweet you are to me." He sighed, but not unhappily. Reopened his document in Word and continued. "As long as I get to rule with you, though, I think that's okay."

Michael snorted. "Promise. You can be my scruffy king, with a scarf instead of a crown."

Chuck smirked at his computer, typing a few words. "I guess I am kinda scruffy, huh?"

"I like it."

"Um. Thank you." Chuck scratched the back of his neck. He laughed, quietly.

Michael kissed his face.

They worked silently beside each other for a long time. Chuck typed in frantic bursts, in between moments spent staring blankly at the fire in the grate. At his side, warm and solid, Michael continued to knit, his scarf steadily growing. On the windows, rain tapped, and wind blew fitfully. Chuck curled his toes in the warmth from the fireplace as he wrote, with his upper half partially propped against Michael, using his shoulder as a place to rest his head. Michael didn't seem to mind. He just kept knitting until his scarf touched his feet.

He set it aside, then. Briefly ran a hand down Chuck's back and asked, "You hungry?"

Chuck looked up and blinked. "Um." He rubbed at his eyes, unsettling his glasses. "Yeah, actually. Wow it's already past lunchtime, huh?"

"Almost two o'clock." Michael stood and stretched his arms over his head. "What would you like? There's still some lemonade in the refrigerator. Plenty of bread. I could make you a sandwich. Grilled cheese? I have a lot of cheese right now."

With a small laugh, Chuck craned his head back to stare at the ceiling and said, "That's fine! Grill me a cheese—I like grilled cheese."

Michael tapped Chuck's forehead as he walked around the couch. "Will do." He walked away, to the kitchen.

Outside, the rain got harder, and the waves made a lot of noise—a persistent rush and rumble. Chuck looked out the windows for a couple of minutes, then turned his attention back to his computer. He typed until Michael sat down beside him again with a plate in hand. Chuck put his laptop on the floor. "Thank you." He took the plate—a sandwich, with cheese melting out from between two thick slices of bread. There were sliced tomatoes and avocado and basil in the sandwich too, and when Chuck took a bite he couldn't help but make a strange noise in the back of his throat.

"I take it you like it?"

Chuck nodded. He tried to chew faster, so he could speak. "It's really good—way better than anything_ I_ make!"

"It's only a sandwich."

Chuck was too busy eating to say anything so he scoffed instead. And almost choked on a piece of tomato. He grimaced and cleared his throat, and when Michael gave him a concerned look he shook his head and said, "I'm fine, I'm fine." He made sure to eat more carefully then, and in between bites, asked Michael, "Aren't you gonna eat anything?"

Michael smiled. "I ate while I was making that."

"Oh, okay."

By dinnertime Chuck felt drowsy and slow. He shut his laptop down and went into the kitchen to watch Michael cook—just some simple potato soup—and nearly fell asleep with his head pillowed in his arms on the island. Michael roused him from a half-conscious state with a bowl of soup and gentle words. Chuck blinked at him and smiled. They ate, and didn't bother to wash the dishes. Went upstairs and changed, and turned off all the little fairy lights that kept the house illuminated, and fell into bed. Michael bundled Chuck into his arms and Chuck twined their legs together. Almost immediately, he fell asleep, warm and snug.

* * *

Chuck stuck his head out the door. "Hmm, it's not too cold—" A gust of wind cut him off and pushed its way into any space it could find to draw goosebumps across his skin. "_Motherfucker_—" Chuck closed the door and hunched his shoulders. "I take back what I said. It's cold."

From the couch, Michael said, "I told you." He used his crochet hook to pull the last tassel through for the baby blue fringe on Chuck's scarf, which he'd only just finished knitting that morning. "Put on one of my jackets and come here." He stood, and when Chuck came closer, he looped the scarf around his neck. Knotted it loosely, and laid it straight. "There. You look warm and stylish." He smirked.

"Thanks." Chuck looked down at his feet.

Michael kissed him, and moved to put on one of his lighter jackets. He grabbed his own scarf—it was light gray fleece, with narrow blue stripes down its length—and pulled Chuck out onto the beach. Overhead, the clouds hung thick and dark. Everything felt wet and heavy, even though the rain had stopped in the night, and the world was just a bit darker than usual. Michael took Chuck's hand, as they walked down the beach.

Neither of them spoke for a long while.

Eventually, they reached the little windswept bower where they first picnicked together. They only passed it by, arm-in-arm, and Michael said, "I always thought I would be alone forever, to be honest. Who wants to be with a man who falls in love with waves instead of people?" He paused. Smiled a little. "But I suppose you like me despite that." He looked down at the sandy grass beneath their feet, as they walked.

"Michael..." Chuck slowed, until they stopped walking. He looked Michael in the eye, and gave him a sweet smile, and kissed him on the cheek. "It's not 'despite' anything, you know. I... I don't like when people say things like, 'I like you _despite_ your flaws,' or things like that. 'Cause—well, I don't want people to think of me that way and I don't want to think of other people that way. I... I think it's not so much 'despite' as 'including.'" He paused. "You're... you. And if I took only certain parts of you, then it wouldn't be you. I like you, _including_ your flaws—and, by the way, loving the waves isn't something I see as a flaw." He scrubbed his face with one hand, a little red in the cheeks. Scuffed his shoe in the sand. "You wake up at the crack of dawn, and you kick sometimes, when you sleep. And shove away all the blankets. But—but you know, I mean... I like all that too. Not 'despite' anything."

Michael looked at Chuck very quietly, for a stretched out minute, until Chuck felt a little silly, like he maybe shouldn't have opened his mouth.

But, finally, "...I like you, too."

Chuck grinned down at his feet, and flushed. He fidgeted a moment before tightening his hold on Michael's arm and setting forward again. Michael walked with him, slowly.

A little ways away, a gull chirped at them. It watched them walk on down the thin grassy stretch of beach that gave way to rocks and wildflowers and skinny trees that creaked in the wind. It kept watching, even when they picked their way into a little copse of trees. But then, Chuck noticed, it flew away. Flapped into the sky and disappeared, as they themselves disappeared into the trees.

It was much less windy under the cover of leaves and branches. Chuck loosened his scarf. He let Michael lead him further in, until the tree trunks grew sparse again, and they came out on the other side of the forest—if you could really call it a forest. More wind, and a meadow. Lots of flowers. It was bigger than the clearing Chuck liked to write in, and greener, and far off on the other side the edge of the river peeked between reeds. A tiny wooden bridge crossed it. In the meadow itself a picnic bench sat, bolted to the ground. It looked like it hadn't been used in a while.

The breeze lulled for a few minutes.

"Is this a park, or something?" Chuck held Michael's hand as he poked around the field. He leaned down to sniff at a flower and almost fell over.

Michael steadied him and said, "Yes." He picked a clover blossom from between the blades of grass under their feet and straightened up. "It doesn't get much upkeep anymore, but people still like to come here sometimes. It's mostly too difficult to get to for most people to bother." He twirled the clover between his fingers.

"Especially with kids, I bet."

"Yes, probably." Michael reached up and tucked the stem of his flower under the arm of Chuck's glasses, with a smile.

Chuck made a face. "I probably look silly." But he didn't take the clover down.

"You don't."

Chuck rolled his eyes and sat at the picnic table, pulling Michael along with him, and watched the grass and flowers sway as the wind picked up again. The wood of the bench creaked quietly. Off in the trees a chickadee peeped, enthusiastic and shrill. Even though it was windy, the sun had begun to peek through the cloud cover, and sent a few tentative rays down to the ground. It lit up the dew-damp grass in patches, making it glitter, and glared off Chuck's glasses. He squinted up at the sky for a moment. Leaned against Michael, forgetful of the flower. It fell away from his ear and onto the ground. He frowned. "Oh well." He closed his eyes, as he rested his head on Michael's shoulder, and yawned.

Wordless, Michael carded his fingers through Chuck's hair. "Don't fall asleep." He smiled. "Though you're so small, I wouldn't have much trouble carrying you home."

"I'm not _that_ small!" Chuck made an exaggerated expression of offense. He sniffed. "Just a little small."

Michael snorted. His phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket with a frown, and opened it. He sent it to voicemail. Put it back in his pocket and looked vaguely put off before his face cleared, and he said, "Would you like to go to the farmers' market with me tomorrow? It's boring, but..." He shrugged. "You could probably find some interesting items to buy."

Chuck tilted his head and thought for a few seconds. "That sounds nice." He nodded. "Okay."

"Alright."

They stayed in the clearing for a while longer, until it began to rain. Michael's phone rang again as they stood to leave but he ignored it, and they walked back into the trees.

* * *

Michael checked that the trailer was securely attached to his bicycle. He turned to Chuck, with a smile, and held out his hand. He laced their fingers together and pulled Chuck closer, and let himself be distracted by the bright blue of Chuck's eyes in the sunlight. He smiled. Looked at the ground for a half a second before kissing Chuck's cheek. "Thank you, for helping out."

"Oh, no problem." Chuck squeezed Michael's hand. He grinned.

"I hope it wasn't too boring."

Chuck rolled his eyes and gave Michael a gentle shove. "It was fine. I like spending time with you." He wrapped his arms around Michael and said, "Anyway, selling doilies is kinda fun."

Raising his eyebrows in disbelief, Michael pulled away so he could climb astride his bicycle. He shook his head. "'Fun' doesn't seem exactly accurate, somehow." He waited for Chuck to climb onto the back of the bike before continuing. "But, as they say... 'whatever floats your boat.'" He shot Chuck a bright smile over his shoulder and pushed off.

It might have been the clearest day of the summer, so far. Not a cloud in sight. Even the breeze had died down to something extremely light, so the air hung warmer and thicker than usual. Michael wished he hadn't forgotten his sunglasses at home, as he squinted into the bright light of late afternoon. At least their momentum on the bicycle sent air circulating around him, to cool him somewhat. Except where Chuck leaned against him. He could feel his shirt sticking to his skin where their shoulders pressed together, trapping their body heat and the warmth of July. He'd need a shower later.

Down one street, lined in arching trees, dappled shadows flickered over them both. Alternating light and dark, until with a bloom of blue sky and yellow sunlight, they were out on a long stretch of un-shaded road. It went on for a while.

They made it to Michael's home by four.

Michael left Chuck downstairs with a lingering kiss and a "Let me just wash up, and I'll start on dinner." He shut himself in the bathroom and stripped down, and looked at himself in the mirror for a moment. Red across the nose and cheeks, with freckles. He'd forgotten his sunscreen too. He sighed. Hopefully not a bad burn... He debated whether he wanted a bath or a shower, and decided on a shower purely because it would be faster.

It wasn't until he stepped out of the tub and dried himself that he realized he'd forgotten his clothes. He looked heavenward with a sigh and tied his towel securely about his waist before poking his way into the hallway. The floor creaked a little under his bare feet.

The bedroom door squeaked as he pushed it open, and Chuck looked up from where he sat in Michael's bed, with a book in his lap. He immediately turned red.

"Uh—um—Hi. Michael." Chuck cleared his throat and averted his eyes.

Michael shook his head. "It's not as though you've never seen me without a shirt." He moved toward his closet. Held his towel tight as he bent down to rummage through various garments—he came away with a soft beater and some worn sweatpants. He caught Chuck staring and smiled teasingly. "What are you looking at, hm?"

"Nothing! I mean..." Chuck ducked his head. "Just... I like your tattoo." He bit his lip and tried not to blush any harder than he already was. (He failed.)

Michael twisted to give a considering look to his lower back—to the fairly large anchor etched into his skin. "I like it too." He grinned.

Chuck wrinkled his nose and half-pouted. He set his book aside and said, "I'd be worried if you didn't like it."

With a huff of laughter, Michael pulled his shirt on, lifting his arms up high so, for just a moment, a clear stretch of his ribs could be seen. He glanced at Chuck, when he tugged at his shirt. Raised his eyebrows, one hand settling along the edge of his towel. As he expected, Chuck went bug-eyed and looked away—even went so far as to cover his face with his hands. Michael rolled his eyes and dropped his towel. Pulled on his sweats (commando because he didn't feel like looking for underwear.)

When Michael moved over to the bed, Chuck dared to look at him again. Picked at a loose thread on the sheets as Michael sat beside him. He asked, "What—uh... what's on your side?"

Michael pulled his shirt up to show Chuck the constellation poked onto his ribcage. "Ursa Minor." He pointed to the tiny dashed lines. "That mole is where Polaris would be."

"Oh—that's really cute." Chuck, without thinking, lifted a hand to trace his fingers down the lines of the little dipper. He pulled his hand away, though, almost immediately, as Michael shivered a little at his touch. He folded his hands in his lap. "Sorry."

"No," Michael pulled his shirt down. "Your fingers are cold, is all it was."

They sat a moment in silence.

Eventually, Michael said, "I'll go make dinner, then."

Chuck nodded. Flushed pink. He hopped to his feet when Michael stood, and trailed after Michael as he went downstairs. He hovered in the kitchen doorway, while Michael set out ingredients for pesto. Michael beckoned Chuck into the kitchen with a softly amused expression—nodded his head toward the island. "It's been a while since lunch." He peeked into the refrigerator. Shot over his shoulder, "Do you want something to snack on?"

"Oh—I guess? I don't wanna ruin my appetite, though... You make such nice food."

Michael raised his eyebrows. He grabbed a carrot, chopped the top off, washed it a bit, and set it in front of Chuck. "Eat." He kissed Chuck's forehead and went back to his dinner preparations, setting a pot of water on the stove to boil.

Chuck made a face, but gnawed on the carrot and watched Michael bustle about the kitchen.

As he worked, Michael chewed on a piece of basil, leaning his hip against the counter whenever he stopped to check his cookbook. He shoved a lot of different ingredients into the food processor until his pesto was the right consistency, and stuck his finger in to tasted it. He hummed to himself. Grabbed a spoon and scooped out a tiny bit and walked over to Chuck. "Taste this?" He held the spoon out. Chuck did as asked. He let out a satisfied little sound.

"It's good."

Michael squinted at his food processor. "It's too salty." He sighed and planted his hands on his hips and thought for a moment. Then he went back to the refrigerator and grabbed a bag of spinach, and threw some in. Blended it all up, tasted it, and nodded.

It took a little while longer to finish everything up.

The finished pasta smelled wonderful, and Michael garnished it with some kind of hard cheese he'd lost the label from, and some cherry tomatoes.

Michael finished eating first, and sat with his hands folded on the countertop of the island. He waited for Chuck to finish eating before he said, "My brother called." He gauged Chuck's reaction—neutrality, perhaps some apprehension, with one finger tapping restlessly on the countertop and teeth digging into his lower lip. Michael reached out for his twitching hand and held it. "Don't worry. Nothing bad." He laced their fingers together. "He told me... he's clean, and released from prison..."

Chuck's eyebrows drew together. "That's good, right? But... what does he want? I–I–I mean, not that there's anything—not that he needs a motive to call and tell you but he called a lot, kind of."

"He wants to visit. Stay with me."

"_Oh_."

Michael found himself fidgeting, something he rarely did, and took a breath to steady himself. He closed his eyes and ran his thumb over the back of Chuck's hand. Spoke quietly—"I haven't seen him since I left... and I—" He sighed. "I don't want him near you, you know? I don't... He can be frightening. Even before... I've never trusted him, completely, even though I love him. Do you... understand what I mean?"

Chuck nodded. He moved closer to Michael. Turned to face him more fully and nestled against him and murmured, "It's okay, Michael." He didn't seem to know precisely what he was reassuring, but just the act of saying the words "It's okay" made Michael soften at the edges a little bit, and lean into him. Chuck pressed a kiss against the skin of Michael's jaw, and Michael curled around him. Wrapped his arms around Chuck's shoulders and buried his face in the soft part of Chuck's shoulder by his neck.

"It frightens me, a little. The thought of him staying for any extended amount of time..." Michael's voice was muffled against Chuck's neck. "We've always been prone to argument..."

The stool under Chuck's butt creaked a little as he shifted and hugged Michael gently, but firmly. He took Michael's face in his hands and pushed him back enough to meet his eyes and pushed a stray little hair back from his forehead. "I can bring you down." He moved as if to kiss Michael, but instead only brushed their noses together. Pressed their foreheads flush. "If you fight you can find me—you can come over and I'll comfort you. 'Cause... that's what you do for people you love, right?" He _did_ kiss Michael, then. Barely-there pressure against his mouth, warm and soft and a little basil-flavored. Cupped Michael's jaw and peppered his face with small kisses. Michael leaned into his touch.

"Just promise... Promise you'll stay away from him? He's not nice. He's my brother, and I love him, but he's always been kind of... well... kind of a dick."

Chuck nodded. "I promise." He rubbed his thumb over Michael's smooth jawline. "Just show me what he looks like before he comes to visit, and I'll avoid him. I'll stay at home—I need to work on my book, anyway. Right? It'll just be a little break to work... or something."

Michael smiled. "Thank you."

Chuck kissed him.

* * *

"When I was younger, I wanted to be a singer or an artist." Michael turned his embroidery around in his hands. Ran a thumb over some of the tiny, x-shaped stitches. "My mom wanted me to be a surgeon but I'm terrified of hospitals. So I got a teaching degree like my older brother. Now, here I am." He half-smiled and set his work aside.

"You wanted to be a singer?" Chuck cuddled into his side.

Michael nodded, smile widening, and slipped his arm around Chuck's waist. "Yup. I even taught myself to play guitar." He idly stroked Chuck's side, through his shirt.

"You have to play for me, sometime."

With a faint flush, Michael made a softly noncommittal noise and leaned his cheek against the top of Chuck's head. He said, "We'll see." He turned his head enough to plant a light kiss just above Chuck's temple. Moved his mouth to Chuck's and shifted around for a better angle, so he wouldn't need to twist his neck so much. He set a hand against Chuck's face, and Chuck urged him closer with a quiet squeak. Rather than move himself, Michael pulled Chuck into his lap, just for convenience. Slid his hands, warm, under Chuck's shirt and teased his mouth open—he didn't much like sex, but he was beginning to discover that he very much _did_ like exploring what made Chuck blush or whine. Part of that involved dancing his fingertips against Chuck's shoulder blades light enough to make the smaller man shiver.

Suddenly pink in the face, Chuck drew away for a moment to drop his forehead against Michael's shoulder.

He didn't know what to do with his hands so he rested them, fingers loosely curled, against Michael's chest. Michael wrapped his arms around Chuck and held him closer. Chuck squirmed a little in his embrace. He felt... heated. More than a little aroused, certainly.

"Sorry."

Michael huffed. He kissed Chuck's cheek. "You're fine." He rubbed Chuck's back, up and down the line of his spine, much more firm than before—encouraging instead of teasing. He lowered his voice. "Do you need me to go upstairs? Give you some private time?" He couldn't help but grin as he spoke.

Chuck stuck his rather cold nose against the side of Michael's neck with an exaggerated frown, and gave his chest a light tap with his middle finger. "You're awful." He drooped more heavily against Michael. "And you're not allowed to go anywhere." A pause. "U—unless you want to. I mean, if you're uncomfortable, you know..."

"Why, Mr. Shurley, are you embarrassed?" Michael smirked.

"Wouldn't you be, if you popped a boner on top of someone just from kissing?!" Chuck swatted Michael's chest and buried his face more firmly in his neck. He could feel his blush spreading all over, red and hot. "Jeez."

Michael laughed. "I can't say I can imagine that sort of situation, in all honesty."

"You're a jerk."

"Aww." Michael ran his fingers through Chuck's hair, and said, gently, "I suppose I am a little bit of a jerk, hm? For starting something we both know I won't follow up on." His mouth turned down at the corners, just a bit, and he let out a muted sigh. "I feel bad, now."

Chuck shook his head, and sat up straighter to give Michael a stern look. "No guilt." He leaned in and kissed Michael, very chastely, on the lips. Spoke quietly. "I just got... overexcited. It happens."

Michael graced him with a smile. "You're sweet."

"Agreed." Chuck grinned. "I'm the sweetest."

They kissed again, lightly.

On the side table, Michael's phone buzzed. He let his head fall back against the couch with a barely audible grumble and reached out for it—answered with a rather terse, "Brother." He listened for a moment (all Chuck could hear were words so garbled as to be unintelligible.) After a moment, "What do you mean? I asked you to—" He frowned deeply, eyebrows drawing together in a way Chuck had never seen, as his brother obviously cut him off. The voice on the phone got louder, but not clearer, and Michael eventually snapped, "Stay outside." He shut his phone. Grimaced. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, letting out his breath in a hiss from his mouth.

"What is it?"

Michael shook his head. He wrapped his arms tight around Chuck and stood, lifting him up before letting him down to the ground. "Brother's outside."

Chuck blanched. "_What_?"

"I'm taking you home." Michael moved to the door. He grabbed his keys from the hook by the coatrack, and clipped them to his belt loop before pulling on his Converse (despite being sockless.) He waited for Chuck to scramble into his sweater and shoes. Took his arm and led him outside, and for the first time Chuck had ever seen, he locked the front door behind them. Then let his arm go, stepping away to leave a few inches' space between them.

He led Chuck along the unpainted fence, stiffer in gait than usual, keeping just ahead of him. Tense.

There was a '75 Monte Carlo parked alongside the part of the road that became gravel and sand, off-white, with very clear windows. The profile of a sturdily-built blond man could just be made out through the windows, sunny as it was. Presumably, the driver's side window was rolled down, because a curl of white cigarette smoke drifted out into the air.

They turned their backs to the car and Michael kept a slow enough pace for Chuck to keep up, but still didn't allow even their shoulders to brush. Chuck crossed his arms and hunched his shoulders as he scurried after him. He didn't like this detached, cold Michael one bit. He wanted to hold his hand, and he wanted him to smile, and he wanted him to melt back into a happier state.

When they reached Chuck's duplex, Michael stepped over the threshold rather than stay outside. Behind the shelter of the front door, Michael kissed Chuck. He held his face in his hot hands and kissed his mouth and his eyelids and his forehead before whispering, "I'll call you at nine." Then he went to leave.

Just before he made it out the door, though, Chuck grabbed the edge of his shirt. He stared down at his feet. Hugged Michael tightly, chewed on his lip, and murmured, "I... um, be careful."

Michael sort of smiled. "I'll be careful." He squeezed Chuck before letting go.

Then he left.

Chuck stood in his hallway, feeling very alone all of a sudden.

He bided his time for a while. Eventually, after maybe two or three minutes—maybe even five—he shuffled his way upstairs, to his bedroom. He stripped down to his underwear and climbed into bed even though it was only around noon, and bundled himself up until he'd cocooned himself in the blankets.

He didn't fall asleep.

It wasn't that he couldn't be away from Michael—sometimes they went a week unable to see each other, though that was usually a rare occurrence. The thing was, he didn't like the situation. Didn't like how guarded Michael had become, with his brother in proximity. Didn't like being around him without touch or affection. Chuck _thrived_ on touch and affection. To have it taken away like that was... disheartening. Even with the kiss in the hall. He didn't like _hiding_. He shoved his face deeper into his pillows and realized his glasses were still on, so he took them off and set them on his nightstand. His knuckled brushed against something cold and ridged. He peeked out from his blankets.

The seashell Michael gave him.

Chuck wrapped his fingers around it and held it close to his face. He turned it over in his hand. Looked at the soft pink and cream inside, shiny and smooth. He curled his hand into a loose fist and burrowed himself into his comforter and sheets again, practically in a fetal position.

He fell asleep with Michael's shell clutched in his hand.

* * *

Michael knocked on the window of his brother's car, rolled down an inch, with cigarette smoke leaking out to contaminate the sea air. He waited for the door to open, sending out more smoke, and said, "You're not allowed to bring that _shit_ into my house, Nick."

Nick spread his arms. "What, the smokes?" He made this _indulgent_ expression, like he was speaking to a very young child, and dropped the cigarette from his hand. Ground the butt into the gravel and sand with the heel of his shoe—he wore a pair of Spectators, white and red-brown. He held out his hand. "There. All gone."

With a roll of his eyes, Michael turned away, and headed toward the house. He didn't wait for Nick to follow, just assumed he would—and he did. The older brother, blond hair purposefully mussed, straightened his jacket and strode after Michael, rather disdainful of the sand crunching beneath his soles.

As Michael opened the front door, Nick asked, "Who was that twitchy little otter you were walking with?"

Michael shot him a glare. Pulled him inside and muttered, "A friend."

"A friend!" Nick laughed, low and smooth and a bit patronizing. "Who knew you'd ever even heard of such a thing as friendship. I thought you hated people." He kicked his shoes off and shrugged out of his suit jacket. Ignored Michael's seething expression as he rolled his sleeves up to his elbow and loosened his maroon silk tie. (It was patterned with skulls so tiny they seemed to be white polka dots at first glance.)

"Did you come here to insult me?" Michael kept his sweater on, irrationally colder in his brother's presence, despite the sixty-five degree weather, and traipsed toward the kitchen. "Because I am not in the goddamn mood, _Nicholas_."

Nick snorted. "Fuck, you're touchy." He followed after Michael with a curling smirk. Leaned in the kitchen doorway, holding the door open with one socked foot, and purred, "Are you all lonely without that guy to keep you company?"

Michael ignored him.

"Oh, you _are_. He is quite the morsel... Though, not my type." He paused, thoughtfully. "Though I could make an exception, just this once..." When Michael dropped his metal mixing bowl, Nick laughed again. "Oh, he's more than just your _friend_, isn't he?"

Michael turned on him—raised a finger and growled, "If you go anywhere near him, I will—"

"You'll... what?" Nick inched into the kitchen and let the door swing shut behind him. "Beat me up? I could tear you apart, little brother, and you know it."

Michael clenched his jaw. He turned his back to Nick and rummaged through his cupboards, searching for his pepper grinder. He set it down perhaps a little more forcefully than necessary before moving to the fridge and grabbing some fish, tomatoes. So on and so forth, so he could crumble some salmon into a smaller bowl than the one he'd gotten out before. Mixed some things up into an impromptu salmon "salad." He could feel Nick's eyes on his back as he pulled out bread and cream cheese. In a few minutes he had two sandwiches finished—he put the extra mixture of salmon into the fridge, with some spare tomato slices, and set one sandwich on a plate within his brother's reach. And then he left the kitchen. Locked himself in his bedroom upstairs with his own sandwich, and sat at the computer, and pulled up iTunes.

The sound, of course, did not compare to the speakers hooked up to his turntable downstairs, but... He'd rather listen to slightly tinny Sufjan Stevens and be alone, than have good sound and have to deal with his infuriating sibling.

The music soothed him, though he still couldn't help but tap his heel restlessly against the wood floor.

The light shifted into partial shadow, darkening his bedroom. He craned his neck to look out the narrow banks of windows along the tops of the walls, above his desk and bed, and saw clouds. Gray and low. He hoped it might rain—to suit his stormy mood.

When Michael took his plate downstairs, feeling a little calmer, he saw Nick standing along the south-facing windows. He was very still, in his rolled up sleeves, with a stern expression. Stared out down the beach. He only stirred when Michael approached. Gave him a somewhat unhappy smile. He looked back out the windows. Went so far as to lean his forehead against the cold glass. As the first raindrops flicked down from the clouds, he asked, "How's Sam?" His voice was low, and hoarse from smoking too much.

Michael pressed his hand flat against the window and when he pulled it away, his skin was damp.

"Sam's fine." He didn't elaborate. Didn't say, "Sam's healthier without you. Sam's sad when he thinks no one's watching. Sam smiles more often now, and it's different from how he was with you. Realer." He didn't want to be cruel and say things Nick already knew. So instead, he asked, "How's mom?"

Nick shrugged. "Still alive. Probably feeding on the souls of unbaptized babies." Michael shot him a scolding look and he laughed. Coughed a little. "I see you've still got that stick up your ass."

"And you're still annoying as hell."

Another laugh, and Nick said, "But I'm the only one who can get you to start cursing left and right."

"Fuck you."

Nick feigned a gasp. "I'm scandalized." He lifted a hand to Michael's shoulder—squeezed. Dropped his voice. "I'm not really gonna make a pass at your boyfriend, you know. I'm an asshole but I'm not heartless."

Michael looked at him sidelong, shrugging his hand away. "Was that supposed to be your poor attempt at an apology?" His mouth twisted into a wry smirk.

Another shrug, fluid.

Michael rolled his eyes.

"Aw, c'mere." Nick turned to face Michael and held his arms out. "I haven't seen you in three years. You could at least deign to hug me." He raised his eyebrows. He got another eye roll from Michael, but the younger man stepped forward and let himself be tugged into a rough embrace. Even hugged back, just a little bit. Nick set a hand against the back of his head, strangely gentle. "I missed you, Micah." he whispered. "Are you happy here?"

With his chin against Nick's shoulder, Michael nodded. "I like it here."

"Good. That plane ticket wasn't cheap." He chuckled, but it was... strained. False.

Michael wanted to say something, but he didn't know precisely what. Something about how his older brother had somehow become a reflection of who he used to be—how he'd gone gaunt and pale, how the blisters on his skin looked like chemical burns. How the light had gone from his eyes so that instead of the electric blue he grew up with, they had become the color of slate. How he felt clammy instead of icy.

Instead, he muttered, "I like it here. The ocean doesn't care what kind of mood I'm in. Just moves in and out with the tides."

Nick nodded.

* * *

Chuck finished the final page of his book, as dinner rolled around.

A book about a stern snake—most certainly harmless and quite lonely, in fact—who befriended a nervous little brown mouse and lived happily ever after.

He stared at the document for a long time, maybe ten minutes, before emailing it to his editor. He stood. He didn't quite know what to do with himself. He could paint, he supposed, but his hand hurt a little bit, and he was hungry. He wandered into the kitchen and scrounged around for something. He found leftover pasta Michael had given him, and a bottle of wine. When had he bought wine? He didn't remember buying it, but it looked enticing, so he uncorked it.

He couldn't find any wine glasses so he poured a glass jar full of wine and put the bottle in the refrigerator, and took his cold pasta and cold wine into the living room. His little old TV watched him blankly. He turned it on and flicked through the channels until he found something that wasn't news. It was a commercial, though, and gave way to more news, so he gave up and decided to watch a movie instead. He knelt by the shelf under the TV and sifted through his movies. He found a DVD of _Brokeback Mountain_, which he didn't think he'd ever actually watched—yeah, it still had the shrink-wrap on. He decided he'd watch that.

Bad idea.

Two hours and fifteen minutes later, Chuck was trying not to cry _too_ hard as the credits rolled. If he'd known how sad that damn movie was he'd never have even bought it in the first place, let alone watched it. He wiped his eyes and downed the remnants of his wine, straight from the bottle. "Shit." He scrubbed at his face and blinked a few times, grimacing. "Fuckin' gay cowboys aren't supposed to be... _tragic_." His face felt kind of tight. He sighed and lay down on the couch. Let the DVD go back to the menu—ignored it.

He mumbled into the cushions unintelligibly. Sighed again. He did that a lot when he'd been drinking. Always got a little melancholy and very sleepy and full of sighs. He stumbled to his feet, a little unsteady, and wondered where his glasses had gone. Somewhere. Maybe in the couch cushions. He shrugged and sniffled, and half-felt his way upstairs. He wondered what time it was—oh, the clock said 8:40. That meant Michael was gonna call soon. Chuck smiled to himself, checked the phone, and lay down. Just for a bit.

He fell asleep pretty fast.

* * *

The temporary serenity, by the window, between Michael and Nick, didn't last long. It acted more as the calm before the storm.

Around dinnertime, Nick lost his temper. He couldn't connect to the internet with his iPhone, he hated rice and beans (and tomatoes), and he hated the rain even more. "That incessant tap-tap-tap—"He threw his hands up and glowered at the room. "Just shut the fuck up!" He tapped at his phone furiously. Still, it wouldn't connect. "_Fuck_."

Michael, arms crossed, mouth turned down, kept a few feet away. Softly, he said, "Getting angry won't help."

"You can shut up, too!" Nick jabbed a finger at his younger brother. "You and your damn health food and your shitty internet connection and your fucking rain!" Absorbed in wild gestures, he dropped his phone, so it clattered to the floor, and the screen cracked and went black. For a moment, he stared at his broken phone. Then swore, explosively. Snatched it up, and when it wouldn't go back one he threw it against the wall—if it hadn't been unsalvageable before, it certainly was now.

Michael continued to keep his distance. He kept quiet, and inched toward the door. This behavior was not unfamiliar territory to him. He knew this—it started small and ended in violence, usually. Though he'd never seen it so bad, over such small things. He wondered if this was how he'd acted with Sam, and thought... probably, yes.

Nick noticed him trying to leave and glared. "What, are you scared? Little Mikey, all shaking in his goddamn boots?"

"No, I—" Michael shut his mouth. Best not to provoke the ravenous leopard, after all.

His brother seemed not to notice he had spoken. Just advanced toward him. Prowled, all but.

Michael made a dash for the door—grabbed the keys from their hook and slammed the door shut, locking it just as Nick apparently ran straight into the wood. Luckily, it was an old lock. Very old—the kind that could only be unlocked with a key, no matter which side you stood on. Michael pocketed the key and backed away from the door. He didn't know what to do so he called the police and told them his brother had just tried to attack him, and where he lived.

Then he stood on the sand, ignoring Nick's shouts through the door and open windows.

He looked around.

It was raining, but lightly. A drizzle, and the air kept still. Very calm, very quiet. Just the delicate rustle of waves on the beach, and one seagull's high-pitched cry, as Nick fell quiet. Michael let out a breath, feeling a little tremble-y, and crunched barefoot through the sand toward his boats. He doubted the police would come, and he had his phone... A short sail would calm his nerves, he figured. Always had.

He set up the red sailboat—dragged her down the beach to the water.

The sun peeked out from the clouds a bit as he strapped on his lifejacket. The water was surprisingly warm. But then, he supposed, it _was_ almost August. The light breeze brushed over his bare arms as he hopped into the boat. The sails filled, and he felt a little like he was flying on the surface of the water—not particularly fast flying, but flying nonetheless.

A gull kept pace with him, black-eyed and ragged.

He let his mind wander. Wished that when he made it home, there wouldn't be a single trace of his brother. That the keys clipped to his belt would never need to be used again, and that he would never need to feel his stomach drop when his phone rang. Which reminded him... He checked his watch. Only half-past seven. He needed to call Chuck in an hour and a half, reassure him that everything was fine. (Even if it wasn't as fine as he wished.)

As he daydreamed, he neglected to notice the changing conditions.

Rising wind, despite the clearing sky—or possibly causing the clearing sky. Rougher waves.

He finally realized how choppy the water had gotten, and how the sails strained. Cursed to himself and tried to loosen the sails, but they wouldn't quite cooperate. Wouldn't move, either. Something had gotten stuck in the mast, somewhere, but it was too dark for him to see clearly and he'd forgotten his flashlight. He checked his compass—at least that was backlit. The boat was headed due southwest. The shoreline was barely visible, as a sliver on the horizon, and it disappeared quickly. Not a problem, as long as he could count on his compass to function.

The sun was in the midst of setting, so Michael checked his watch. Almost nine o'clock. As the boat rocked, he clung tight to the mast and fumbled for his phone. Hit speed dial and waited as it rang, and rang, and rang, and no one answered. He swore, when the answering machine picked up. Left a quick message, and as he was in the middle of saying, "Call me back as soon as you get this," he felt the boat shift under him in a way that boded badly. He cursed. Finished his message and ended the call.

He jammed his phone back into his pocket as the boat tilted forward, like a stick balancing on the mud before it fell, and suddenly the sky was the wrong way round and there was the sea, coming up to hold him.

For the first time since he was ten years old, Michael prayed.

* * *

Chuck woke to the sound of his fire alarm screaming. He nearly fell out of bed, tripped on his blankets, and finally ran out into the hall. Louder. Down the stairs and into the kitchen, through a haze of smoke. He reached his stove and turned it off—when had he even turned it on anyway? He opened all the windows he could and finally used his broom to whack the smoke detector until it stopped piercing his brain with noise. He groaned and leaned against the wall.

A quick glance at his DVD player told him it was ten.

"Fuck."

He tried to ignore his throbbing headache and made his way back upstairs, into his bedroom. He shut the door to keep the smoke out and shoved an old, dirty towel against the crack along the bottom. Opened the window, sat on his bed, and grabbed his phone. He slid it open and, sure enough, was greeted with a notification for one missed call and one message. He poked at a few buttons, until the robot of the answering machine said, "One new message. One saved message. To listen—" He pressed one, and held his phone to his ear. It was a little static-y, but it was clearly Michael. Apparently on the water, judging by the background noise.

"Chuck, it's Michael. I did something stupid. I'm on my boat, but something's wrong with the sails, and the wind's gone foul. Please, just—Call me back as soon as you get this. Fuck. I love you." And then he hung up.

Chuck sat very still, with his phone against his ear. As the machine said, "No new messages," he slid his phone shut, and then opened it again, and carefully typed in Michael's number. It didn't ring. It let out a discordant set of beeps and a woman's mechanical voice said, "We're sorry. The person you are trying to reach is unavailable. Please try your call again." He closed his phone.

He tried three more times, and each time was met with the same response.

He dialed 9-1-1.

He tried to keep calm, as it rang.

Tried not to panic.

His eyes welled with tears, as he tried not to think of all the possible things that could have happened with bad wind and bad sails. It didn't bear thinking about. His hands shook just contemplating the possibility of Michael being sucked down by the waves.

Finally, finally, finally, a woman answered. Her voice was gentle, and she seemed to understand everything Chuck meant even though he felt as though he was barely coherent—babbling with growing terror and worry, fidgeting uncontrollably.

She reassured him and asked him to stay on the line, and put him on hold.

He wandered downstairs, through the still-hazy hallway, out onto the carport. The gravel of the driveway was a little damp and a little warm, and sharp. He hunched his shoulders and looked up at the sky. Tried to convince himself that everything was fine and Michael was just out of range. But he couldn't help but worry. One eye overflowed, and two tears dripped down his cheek. He bit his lip. Set up a little mantra of words through his head: He's alright, he's alright, he's alright, he's alright.

Maybe he dropped his phone. Maybe he didn't have bars. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

It seemed like ages before a police car rolled up, crackling on the gravel, and a man with silver hair stepped out. Chuck wiped his face on his sleeve as the officer approached, and tried for a polite smile. It came out a grimace. The man spoke but Chuck didn't hear most of what he said—he was too busy trying to keep himself from having a panic attack or something. The man asked a question, and Chuck just nodded. He stared at the officer's badge—"Smith." What an unusually common last name.

Eventually, Officer Smith left.

Chuck went back inside and sat on the couch with his phone in his lap. After a moment of deep-breathing and deliberation, he decided to call his dad.

It rang a few times.

"It's late, buddy. Why're you calling?" A pause. "Something's wrong."

Chuck made a noise. Affirmative, and squeaky. He swallowed down his desire to cry and said, "M-Michael might be in trouble. Tell me a story."

"You need a distraction, huh?" Chuck's father hummed, and his voice was low and soothing and familiar. "Well, I'll tell you a nice and long story. But you gotta promise you'll tell me if anything happens. Okay?"

"Yes, daddy."

His dad sighed. "You really are worried, aren't you?" He paused for a few seconds before starting, "Once upon a time, there was a miller."

He told Chuck the story of Puss in Boots.

Chuck lay down on the couch and listened to his father's voice. Let it calm him, until he drifted into a fitful unconscious state, and dreamed of cats in shoes slaying ogres. He didn't wake when his father said, "Good night," and he didn't wake when the phone fell from his hand to the floor, and he didn't wake when a knock came at his door.

At least, not at first.

But they knocked loud and hard, and eventually roused him so he ran to the door and flung it open. It was Officer Smith, and a few others. He said, "The boat's been found, and a little ways away they found a young man who fit your description. Alive."

Chuck could have fainted with relief.

* * *

Michael felt fairly sure he had never been more terrified than in the moment his boat pitchpoled, end over end, and slung him into the roiling sea. Maybe the moment he was submerged, fighting the urge to gasp in a lungful of water. But he breached the surface and breathed deep and cast around to see his surroundings. It was too dark though. He could barely even make out the shape of his boat, and knew he wouldn't be able to right it. He'd never capsized before. Had no preparation for the situation. All he could do was hope the water wasn't cold enough to give him hypothermia, and that he'd be found sooner rather than later.

He bobbed in the still-heaving waves, and focused on keeping his head above water—on conserving heat and energy. He drew his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around his shins, and stared up at the stars. Clouds obscured them in places, but for the most part they shone clear and twinkling.

He floated and floated, and noted that his boat was drifting away from him.

He shivered.

After fifteen minutes, he'd begun to feel stiff.

Thirty minutes, and uncontrollable shivers wracked his frame. A bad sign, he imagined. He hadn't realized quite how cold the water truly was. Between fifty and sixty degrees, and he felt like he'd turn into a popsicle at any moment, as the water sapped away his body heat. He could hardly move his fingers.

An hour and he felt dazed and numb.

He passed out about ten minutes after clumsily checking his (thankfully waterproof) watch. Ten forty-two, moon in the sky, wind subsiding.

When he woke, it was to the sound of a heart monitor. He kept his eyes closed, and focused on feeling. He tingled all over. He breathed in warm, damp air from the mask clamped to his face. He was dry, and—not warm, but not as cold as he'd felt before losing consciousness. Something hot pressed against his side, though, from his shoulder to his ankle. Smaller spots of heat sat elsewhere, over his body. On his stomach, and over his groin, and under his armpits. Interesting. He blinked his eyes open in darkness. Grimaced. Turned his head, to see a figure plastered against him in the dim illumination through the window.

And off in the corner, in the darkness, he imagined he saw the shape of his brother. He couldn't very well tell, though. Especially with how the man slumped, and how he sat completely in the dark, untouched by the illumination from outside.

He lay still for a while, breathing slowly. Felt the warmth slowly seep back into his bones.

He lost track of time, fell asleep again. But he woke with the sunrise, shining directly into the room through the wide white window. He squinted, and shifted a little where he lay. Still attached to his side, Chuck stirred, and clung tighter to Michael. Michael lifted his hand—the one without the I.V., and ran his fingers through Chuck's hair. Chuck relaxed a little bit.

Michael kept his hand in Chuck's hair and looked around his room. His brother—so he'd been correct, guessing the form in the shadows was Nick—sat in the corner, eyes sharp, arms crossed. He nodded at Michael, and turned away to stare at the window.

Michael listened to Chuck breathe and the heart monitor beep.

After a few minutes, voice low and hoarse, Nick murmured, "He's not supposed to be in your bed, but the nurse didn't have the heart to move him." He snorted. "He was a mess. Hung-over and sniffling every fucking five minutes. You never told me your little boyfriend was so pathetic."

With a roll of his eyes, Michael said, "Better pathetic than violent." His voice was muffled through the oxygen mask on his face.

Nick didn't respond.

The nurse came around, eventually. He was a tall, dark man. Soft-voiced but stony-faced. He checked Michael's vital signs, and his temperature, and seemed satisfied. He asked Michael a few questions, vague, about prior health, and about what had happened on the boat. Michael answered perhaps a little sharply, mostly because he was scared. Now that he was firmly conscious and clear-thinking, his irrational phobia of hospitals had settled into the back of his brain, and he wanted out.

As if telepathic, Nick asked when Michael might be released.

"Ideally, we'd prefer to keep your for another twenty-four to thirty-six hours..." He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "But... You can technically leave whenever you want. I'd advise staying at least until noon."

Michael nodded, flooded with a vague sense of relief that his stay would be short. He reached up and pulled the oxygen mask from his face so he could speak clearly. (And so he wouldn't have to have the thing strapped to his face, making him feel light-headed and claustrophobic.) The air in the room was colder than the air from the mask, and it startled him a little bit. He blinked. "I think noon sounds alright."

"Good, good."

The three of them stayed in Michael's room all morning, while the nurses went back and forth. Only one asked Chuck to remove himself from Michael's bed, but the moment she left the room Chuck was right back up beside Michael, head on his chest, rubbing his thumb in circles against Michael's ribs. Michael was grateful. He felt better with Chuck's familiar presence at his side. Chuck fell asleep again around eleven and Michael smiled to himself and pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

At noon, the nurse from that morning came in, and he set about unhooking Michael from all the machines, and had him go through some paperwork, and told him not to go anywhere cold anytime soon. Told him to try his hardest to be warmer than usual, and to drink certain things and eat certain other things, just for a few days. "No caffeine for a little while, okay?" He crossed his arms.

Michael nodded. "Okay."

The nurse waited for Michael to dress himself—his clothes had been washed and dried overnight—and then insisted on pushing Michael out of the hospital in a wheelchair. Michael looked dubious, but he consented. Sat serenely while the nurse wheeled him to the front entrance of the hospital. Michael wobbled to his feet, unsteady after spending twelve hours bedridden and on the verge of hypothermia. He let Nick take his arm on one side, and let Chuck support him on the other. (Though, if he fell, he doubted Chuck would be able to do much about it.)

Nick drove them to Michael's house, and he didn't speak the whole way. Only turned the radio on very quietly, to some contemporary music station. (The kind 40 year old housewives listen to.) He drove carefully, and kept his eyes on the road, and ignored Michael and Chuck kissing in the back seat. He did, however, tell Michael to put on his seatbelt, once, though he himself wasn't wearing his.

Michael obliged, despite his older brother's hypocrisy. He took Chuck's hand in his own and leaned his head against Chuck's shoulder. Chuck laced their fingers together. "I was worried about you." He kept his voice a whisper. "You... you scared me."

"I'm sorry." Michael buried his nose in Chuck's neck and breathed slowly. "It won't happen again."

Chuck hummed. "Promise?"

"I promise."

The car stopped, by Michael's house. Nick opened the door for them, and helped Michael out of the car. He stood still for a moment, and eventually, in his low purring voice he said, "I'm going home, Michael. I'll call you, maybe." And he got right back into his Chevy, and he drove away. Didn't even hug Michael, or say anything else.

He always was like that.

Michael held Chuck's hand all the way around to the front of the house, and saw a small, flat, silver key in a brand new lock—the kind that could be unlocked from the inside with just a little knob. He frowned. There was a note attached to the knob, so he read it out loud.

"Mr. Milton. I had to break your doorknob. Sorry about that. New lock's on me." It was signed with the local locksmith's name. Michael smiled. He unlocked the door, hung the new key where he always hung the old keys—somehow, the old keys had gotten lost, even though they'd been clipped to his belt—and took off his shoes. He stood there in the threshold quietly, while Chuck tugged off his Converse, and eventually he said, "I feel like a piece of fish. Let's take a bath."

Chuck looked at him with a faint flush in his cheeks. "Together?"

Michael nodded.

"_Naked_?"

Michael laughed, and took Chuck's arm. "How else would we take a bath?"

Chuck stammered for a moment, and decided to shut his mouth and follow Michael upstairs. Because he was not one to dismiss the chance to bathe with his super-handsome twenty-five year old boyfriend. Okay that sounded maybe a _little_ bit creepy... But the point still stood.

Michael got in first, with the water still running. Chuck sat on the toilet and waited for him to scrub the salty film from his skin before eventually slipping into the water with him. (The very _hot_ water.) He moved tentatively until he adjusted to the heat. Leaned against Michael, surrounded by steam and the faint smell of soap—kicked at the knob until the faucet turned off. And he relaxed. Michael wrapped his arms around him, and tucked his head under his chin, and their legs tangled together. It was a tight fit, and they both had to draw their knees up, but it was somehow soothing. Maybe because of the skin-to-skin contact all over and the hot water.

After a moment, it seemed like Chuck might fall asleep.

He yawned. Covered Michael's hands (on his stomach, warm) with his own.

Two-hundred long, slow breaths, leaning against Michael's chest, and eventually he whispered, "You still haven't played your guitar for me."

"What?" Michael blinked—he'd gotten pretty drowsy, himself.

Chuck shrugged and squeezed his fingers. "You said you taught yourself to play—You said you'd play for me, sometime." He twisted awkwardly to direct his smile at Michael.

"I never said that. I said... _maybe_."

Chuck pouted at him, exaggerated. "_Please_?"

"Fine."

Chuck beamed and made a little triumphant fist.

They stayed in the bath until it started to get a little cool, and their toes and fingers got all wrinkled from the water. Dried each other off—well, that mostly consisted of Chuck mussing up Michael's hair with a towel and Michael attempting to actually get dry. But eventually, they'd gotten into pajamas, and they went into the bedroom, and Chuck sat on the bed while Michael dug around in his closet.

He came away with a big black guitar case, and set it on the floor. Knelt to unclasp it, and pulled out an acoustic guitar with pretty mother of pearl inlays in the fretboard and a deep red body. He sat down cross-legged, with the guitar in his lap, and twisted the pegs as he plucked to tune. As with most tuning, it sounded terrible. But he strummed a few times, and the sounds flowed together cohesively, and he smiled.

"What are you gonna play?" Chuck leaned his elbows against his thighs, and his chin against his hands. "A _loooove_ song?"

Michael snorted. "I can only promise it's not 'Wonderwall.'" He smiled, and picked around, trying to regain a feel for his guitar. "I haven't played in a year, though. So... fair warning."

Chuck rolled his eyes and grinned. "I bet you're great."

A shrug from Michael. And he strummed again as a test, and began to pluck at the strings. High, soft notes, in a stilted little pattern. Very simple. He played them on repeat for a few seconds, longer than the intro to the song normally would have been, until he got a good feel for it. He muttered "Like speaking to an old friend for the first time in a year," while he played. Then laughed. "Apologies. That sounded ridiculous." He stumbled over a note, and grimaced. Regained his footing, and finally, he began to sing.

Chuck recognized the song but he didn't know what it was called. It was by Death Cab for Cutie, of that much he was certain. He'd heard it playing on Michael's record player on multiple occasions, quiet in the background.

The way Michael sang it, it seemed like a song he'd memorized long ago. He sang and played with his eyes closed, almost swaying, and Chuck thought his silly little line about "speaking to an old friend" was probably true. Michael certainly played like he'd spent his whole life with the guitar and only briefly forgot, until that moment. He played and sang as easy as breathing—maybe because the song was so simple, but maybe not.

For the duration, Chuck forgot to blink. He didn't want to miss a moment of Michael's gently serious expression, or the way he slid his fingers down the neck of his guitar.

Too mesmerizing.

When Michael finished, he sat still for a moment. A slow flush of pink crept up his neck and he stared down at the wooden floor. He reached up to scratch the back of his neck and said, "I was probably kind of off."

"No—" Chuck hopped down from the bed. He knelt in front of Michael and took his hands with a big grin, and pecked his cheek. "I liked it. I think you're great." He leaned his forehead against Michael's so he could look him in the eye. "Really. I'm so glad I got the chance to hear you play. And sing. I love when you sing—like when you're cooking dinner and you just hum to yourself or whatever else. It's so cute." He couldn't help but go a little red. "Honestly."

Michael kissed him. Cupped his face in one hand, all warm and calloused against Chuck's scratchy cheek.

After a few minutes of mostly basking in each other's closeness, Chuck pushed Michael's guitar out of his lap and sat down in its place. Michael uncrossed his legs so he could be more comfortable (and not have his legs fall asleep from Chuck's—admittedly slight—weight.) He wrapped his arms around Chuck's waist and rested his chin on Chuck's shoulder. Chuck leaned his head against Michael's. He was silent, for another long span of minutes.

But eventually, he spoke, quietly. "That message you left me—um..." He picked at his nails for a second, thinking of how to phrase his thoughts. Laced his fingers through Michael's. "You said... Well. Just. I love you, too, Michael."

Michael stuck his nose into Chuck's neck—kissed at the soft skin there. "Not just relief talking?"

Chuck shook his head. "No—not just relief." He let out a huff of laughter.

Michael smiled. "Good."


	2. One year later

_One year later:_

Michael woke later than usual, with light streaming through the window. Tiny specks of dust turned gold in the mid-morning sunlight, and drifted about. He stuck his hand through the nearest beam of light, and then he stretched and frowned a little when he realized Chuck wasn't in the bed. But then he noticed the slight smell of eggs, and the soft sound of music from downstairs, and he smiled to himself.

Birds chirped outside, and a slight breeze ruffled the curtains. (Chuck had made him get new ones, because he disliked waking at the break of dawn, but they were still thin and sheer, soft blue.) Michael yawned and decided to go downstairs—after a quick little morning freshening-up in the bathroom, of course. He needed to shave.

Downstairs, all the windows were open, letting in fresh summer salt air. Chuck had put on some Bright Eyes LP at random, and it played just a little scratchy. Michael walked into the kitchen, and just as he'd thought, Chuck was making eggs. Scrambled eggs with leftover pesto, apparently. Michael sidled up behind him, wrapping his arms around Chuck, and murmured, "You never wake up before me, let alone cook. What's the occasion?" He nuzzled Chuck's neck.

Chuck rolled his eyes. "The occasion—" he said, as he leaned over to turn off the burner. "The occasion is that I forgot our one year anniversary, so I'm doing it a month late."

Michael laughed and kissed his stubbly jawline. "I told you I didn't care. I almost forgot, too."

"Yeah—but... But you made me a little. A thing. That pastry thing. And I felt bad." Chuck squirmed a little in Michael's embrace and dumped the eggs out onto two plates. He turned around, once his hands were free, to drape his arms over Michael's shoulders. "So I made you breakfast. And I'm making dinner. And I picked some of the lavender from the yard because it smells nice." He shrugged. "I tried to use your juicer thingy to make oranges, but I ended up squirting myself in the glasses so I gave up and stuck what I got in the fridge. Maybe I'll make something dessert-y with it. Sugar-free dessert-y."

With a snort, Michael hugged Chuck tighter. "You're much too sweet. If forgetful."

Chuck just shook his head. "You cook for me all the time, so I thought I should return the favor." He seemed to be struck with a memory, suddenly, and said, "Oh!" He pulled away from Michael so he could see his face more clearly. "I also found some sparklers. I think they're from last year's fourth of July!"

"Oh, really?" Michael tilted his head curiously. "What did you do with them?"

Gently, Chuck pushed at Michael until he let him go. He took up their plates and moved toward the island, and sat down. Patted the tabletop. "I put them on the couch. Maybe we can play with them later, or something." He shrugged. "Anyway! Eat! Time for food! I slaved away for you!" But he was grinning broadly, and leaned against the tabletop with a fond look in his eyes.

Michael sat, and they ate together.

* * *

The evening was a little damp, and cold for August. A fine drizzle sifted through the air. Left tiny beads across the wool of Chuck's scarf and Michael's thin cardigan. Like glitter. Michael turned his face up into the cool, gentle mist of rain. He stood still on the beach. A few feet away, Chuck flicked his lighter a few times, and lit a sparkler. He held it out, away from them both, in the dusk. Michael smiled. Chuck waved that one around a bit, but he handed it to Michael, who just held it and watched its white sparks fall to the sand.

Chuck set the sparklers all out in a curving line, each stick shoved into the sand. He made a heart and asked, "Is this dorky enough for you?" He grinned. Lit them one by one, 'til a little fiery heart stood on the beach.

"You should take a picture." Michael teased. He tossed the sparkler in his hand to the wet sand. It went out almost right away. He wrapped an arm around Chuck's waist, and kissed him. "When school starts, and I have the children write about what they did over the summer, they're sure to ask me, and I can just show them this picture." More kisses, all across Chuck's face.

Chuck blushed.

Michael jostled him a little in his arms, and looked back out on the dimly lit waves and the heart of sparks.

He hadn't been out on his sailboat since the previous summer—hadn't even bothered to have it repaired, or to buy a new one. He still fished, in the river, either by rowboat or from the shore. Always in calm weather, always with Chuck at his side. But he still loved the ocean, and walking out into the surf with his jeans rolled up to his knees and the sun high above dispersing the fog.

They stood out in the dark until the sparklers went out, and then Chuck dragged Michael inside to eat dinner—a Spanish omelet, baked in a cast iron pan—and then dessert of a sort—orange muffins, sweetened only from the orange juice he'd made in the morning.

After dinner, they sat on the couch with the fire going. Michael worked on embroidering a twisting old pine tree onto a piece of flecked off-white cloth, and Chuck sketched beside him. As the moon rose outside, Chuck drifted off to sleep, still holding his pencil in one hand. When Michael took away his notebook—careful not to wake him—he looked at the drawing there.

A little mouse, shy and plump, with a thin garden snake. Vaguely penciled-in words, for a tentative title.

Chuck was designing the cover for the book he'd finished the year before. About the small brown mouse who became a lonely snake's first friend. The book that had absolutely become about Michael and Chuck, somehow. Michael smiled to himself, just barely. He bundled Chuck into his arms and carried him upstairs—half-woke him to change his clothes. And they lay down together, and Michael wrapped himself around Chuck, and Chuck curled into him, and he whispered,

"Night, Michael."

Michael kissed the top of his head. "Goodnight."


	3. Alternate Ending: Major Character Death

(Starting a little ahead of where the story would branch off, just as context and a refresher. There are, of course, a few slight changes here and there, to fit into the scenario of the unhappy ending.)

Starting off just as Lucifer loses his temper.

**Warnings**: Major character death by drowning, alcohol use and high levels of intoxication, depression, etc. General unhappiness.

* * *

The temporary serenity, by the window, between Michael and Nick, didn't last long. It acted more as the calm before the storm.

Around dinnertime, Nick lost his temper. He couldn't connect to the internet with his iPhone, he hated rice and beans (and tomatoes), and he hated the rain even more. "That incessant tap-tap-tapping—"He threw his hands up and glowered at the room. "Just shut the fuck up!" He prodded at his phone furiously. Still, it wouldn't connect. "_Fuck_."

Michael, arms crossed, mouth turned down, kept a few feet away. Softly, he said, "Getting angry won't help."

"You can shut up, too!" Nick jabbed a finger at his younger brother. "You and your damn health food and your shitty internet connection and your fucking rain!" Absorbed in wild gestures, he dropped his phone, so it clattered to the floor, and the screen cracked and went black. For a moment, he stared at his broken phone. Then swore, explosively. Snatched it up, and when it wouldn't go back one he threw it against the wall—if it hadn't been unsalvageable before, it certainly was now.

Michael continued to keep his distance. He kept quiet, and inched toward the door. This behavior was not unfamiliar territory to him. He knew this—it started small and ended in violence, usually. Though he'd never seen it so bad, over such small things. He wondered if this was how he'd acted with Sam, and thought... probably, yes.

Nick noticed him trying to leave and glared. "What, are you scared? Little Mikey, all shaking in his goddamn boots?"

"No, I—" Michael shut his mouth. Best not to provoke the ravenous leopard, after all.

His brother seemed not to notice he had spoken. Just advanced toward him. Prowled, all but.

Michael made a dash for the door—grabbed the keys from their hook and slammed the door shut, locking it just as Nick apparently ran straight into the wood. Luckily, it was an old lock. Very old—the kind that could only be unlocked with a key, no matter which side you stood on. Michael pocketed the key and backed away from the door. He didn't know what to do so he called the police and told them his brother had just tried to attack him, and where he lived.

Then he stood on the sand, ignoring Nick's shouts through the door and open windows.

He looked around.

It was raining, but lightly. A drizzle, and the air kept still. Very calm, very quiet. Just the delicate rustle of waves on the beach, and one seagull's high-pitched cry, as Nick fell quiet. Michael let out a breath, feeling a little tremble-y, and crunched barefoot through the sand toward his boats. He doubted the police would come, and he had his phone... A short sail would calm his nerves, he figured. Always had.

He set up the red sailboat—dragged her down the beach to the water.

The sun peeked out from the clouds a bit as he strapped on his lifejacket. The water was surprisingly warm. But then, he supposed, it _was_ almost August. The light breeze brushed over his bare arms as he hopped into the boat. The sails filled, and he felt a little like he was flying on the surface of the water—not particularly fast flying, but flying nonetheless.

A gull kept pace with him, black-eyed and ragged.

He let his mind wander. Wished that when he made it home, there wouldn't be a single trace of his brother. That the keys clipped to his belt would never need to be used again, and that he would never need to feel his stomach drop when his phone rang. Which reminded him... He checked his watch. Only half-past seven. He needed to call Chuck in an hour and a half, reassure him that everything was fine. (Even if it wasn't as fine as he wished.)

As he daydreamed, he neglected to notice the changing conditions.

Rising wind, despite the clearing sky—or possibly causing the clearing sky. Rougher waves.

He finally realized how choppy the water had gotten, and how the sails strained. Cursed to himself and tried to loosen the sails, but they wouldn't quite cooperate. Wouldn't move, either. Something had gotten stuck in the mast, somewhere, but it was too dark for him to see clearly and he'd forgotten his flashlight. He checked his compass—at least that was backlit. The boat was headed due southwest. The shoreline was barely visible, as a sliver on the horizon, and it disappeared quickly. Not a problem, as long as he could count on his compass to function.

The sun was in the midst of setting, so Michael checked his watch. Almost nine o'clock. As the boat rocked, he clung tight to the mast and fumbled for his phone. Hit speed dial and waited as it rang, and rang, and rang, and no one answered. He swore, when the answering machine picked up. Left a quick message, and as he was in the middle of saying, "Call me back as soon as you get this," he felt the boat shift under him in a way that boded badly. He cursed. Finished his message and ended the call.

He jammed his phone back into his pocket as the boat tilted forward, like a stick balancing on the mud before it fell, and suddenly the sky was the wrong way round and there was the sea, coming up to hold him.

For the first time since he was ten years old, Michael prayed.

* * *

Chuck woke to the sound of his fire alarm screaming. He nearly fell out of bed, tripped on his blankets, and finally ran out into the hall. Louder. Down the stairs and into the kitchen, through a haze of smoke. He reached his stove and turned it off—when had he even turned it on anyway? He opened all the windows he could and finally used his broom to whack the smoke detector until it stopped piercing his brain with noise. He groaned and leaned against the wall.

A quick glance at his DVD player told him it was ten.

"Fuck."

He tried to ignore his throbbing headache and made his way back upstairs, into his bedroom. He shut the door to keep the smoke out and shoved an old, dirty towel against the crack along the bottom. Opened the window, sat on his bed, and grabbed his phone. He slid it open and, sure enough, was greeted with a notification for one missed call and one message. He poked at a few buttons, until the robot of the answering machine said, "One new message. One saved message. To listen—" He pressed one, and held his phone to his ear. It was a little static-y, but it was clearly Michael. Apparently on the water, judging by the background noise.

"Chuck, it's Michael. I did something stupid. I'm on my boat, but something's wrong with the sails, and the wind's gone foul. Please, just—Call me back as soon as you get this. Fuck. I love you." And then he hung up.

Chuck sat very still, with his phone against his ear. As the machine said, "No new messages," he slid his phone shut, and then opened it again, and carefully typed in Michael's number. It didn't ring. It let out a discordant set of beeps and a woman's mechanical voice said, "We're sorry. The person you are trying to reach is unavailable. Please try your call again." He closed his phone.

He tried three more times, and each time was met with the same response.

He dialed 9-1-1.

He tried to keep calm, as it rang.

Tried not to panic.

His eyes welled with tears, as he tried not to think of all the possible things that could have happened with bad wind and bad sails. It didn't bear thinking about. His hands shook just contemplating the possibility of Michael being sucked down by the waves.

Finally, finally, finally, a woman answered. Her voice was gentle, and she seemed to understand everything Chuck meant even though he felt as though he was barely coherent—babbling with growing terror and worry, fidgeting uncontrollably.

She reassured him and asked him to stay on the line, and put him on hold.

He wandered downstairs, through the still-hazy hallway, out onto the carport. The gravel of the driveway was a little damp and a little warm, and sharp. He hunched his shoulders and looked up at the sky. Tried to convince himself that everything was fine and Michael was just out of range. But he couldn't help but worry. One eye overflowed, and two tears dripped down his cheek. He bit his lip. Set up a little mantra of words through his head: He's alright, he's alright, he's alright, he's alright.

Maybe he dropped his phone. Maybe he didn't have bars. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

It seemed like ages before a police car rolled up, crackling on the gravel, and a man with silver hair stepped out. Chuck wiped his face on his sleeve as the officer approached, and tried for a polite smile. It came out a grimace. The man spoke but Chuck didn't hear most of what he said—he was too busy trying to keep himself from having a panic attack or something. The man asked a question, and Chuck just nodded. He stared at the officer's badge—"Smith." What an unusually common last name.

Eventually, Officer Smith left.

Chuck went back inside and sat on the couch with his phone in his lap. After a moment of deep-breathing and deliberation, he decided to call his dad.

It rang a few times.

"It's late, buddy. Why're you calling?" A pause. "Something's wrong."

Chuck made a noise. Affirmative, and squeaky. He swallowed down his desire to cry and said, "M-Michael might be in trouble. Tell me a story."

"You need a distraction, huh?" Chuck's father hummed, and his voice was low and soothing and familiar. "Well, I'll tell you a nice and long story. But you gotta promise you'll tell me if anything happens. Okay?"

"Yes, daddy."

His dad sighed. "You really are worried, aren't you?" He paused for a few seconds before starting, "Once upon a time, there was a miller."

He told Chuck the story of Puss in Boots.

Chuck lay down on the couch and listened to his father's voice. Let it calm him, until he drifted into a fitful unconscious state, and dreamed of cats in shoes slaying ogres. He didn't wake when his father said, "Good night," and he didn't wake when the phone fell from his hand to the floor, and he didn't wake when a knock came at his door.

At least, not at first.

But they knocked loud and hard, and eventually roused him so he ran to the door and flung it open. It was Officer Smith, and a few others. He said, "The boat's been found in pieces, and they found the body of a young man who fit your description. We checked identification—Michael Milton?"

Chuck felt his stomach drop—like he'd been kicked in the gut. He stood very, very still, then turned around (left the door open) and made his way to the kitchen. He had no more wine, so he searched his cupboards and ignored the fact that Officer Smith had followed him in. The old man looked worried. Chuck just kept his back to him. When he couldn't find any alcohol, he sat at his kitchen table, buried his face in his arms, and tried not to sob.

The officer didn't know what to do. Not really.

* * *

Michael felt fairly sure he had never been more terrified than in the moment his boat pitchpoled, end over end, and slung him into the roiling sea. Maybe the moment he was submerged, fighting the urge to gasp in a lungful of water. No... the most terrifying moment was just after he breached the surface and pulled in a breath—his boat came down over him, mast miraculously intact, and forced him down back into the water. Something had caught on the back of his lifejacket, so he couldn't move. He struggled, and he didn't budge, and he realized he was in deep trouble. Another moment added to the list of general horror.

Two thoughts ran through his head—"I'm going to die," and "At least I said I loved him."

He held his breath as long as he could.

Until it hurt not to breathe, and his head spun. But he held his breath and held his breath and held his breath.

Eventually the pain stopped, and he blacked out.

* * *

Chuck didn't know what to do, so he called his dad. He left a message—just, "Dad, I need you." Then he looked at his yawning, empty cupboards, and hauled his hung-over ass to the front door, trying not to let himself brim over with tears, and he made a mental list of food he needed. He shoved on his helmet and took his motorcycle, and he went to the farthest grocery store. The one Michael had brought him to a few times, to buy specific ingredients. It was a co-op run by a nice little Native lady whose son lived up in Vancouver.

Chuck waved at her as he walked in.

He meandered through the co-op aimlessly, grabbing whatever caught his eye for the most part. Milk, some off-brand mac and cheese, yogurt. Bag of cookies, box of crackers. Two bottles of wine. (He'd have to use something to pad those in his messenger bag, on the ride home.) He figured, for now, that was good enough, and he could make a real grocery list later and go to the store closer to his house.

When he came up to the checkout stand, the first thing the old woman had to say was, "You been crying?" She shook her head. Clucked her tongue. "Shouldn't drive that deathtrap of a bike crying."

Chuck just shrugged. Swallowed past the ball of silence in his throat and croaked, "I'll be careful, ma'am."

"Where's that handsome boy you're always with, huh? He break up with you?"

The shop and the woman swam in front of him, as he held back a sudden need to burst into tears. He made a twisted face—a grimace—and shook his head. "No, no," he said. His voice was hoarse. "He didn't—he didn't break up with me. No."

She just frowned and muttered, "Good. He's a lonely one." She finished ringing up Chuck's stuff. "Wouldn't be smart of him to make himself more lonely." He held her hand out for Chuck's payment, and he handed her a few wadded up bills. She counted them out, gave him his change, passed him his messenger bag, all packed tight and specially padded for the wine. "You take care now, young man."

Chuck might've laughed at being called a young man, if he had been anything other than slowly disintegrating inside. But he can hardly speak—can hardly make a noise, and if he tried it would probably come out as some strangled cry. Instead he just clenched his jaw and raised his hand goodbye, and slinked his way half-blind out of the store. He got to his bike, and that was it. He couldn't go anymore. He sank down and sat on the curb beside his motorcycle. Gripped his hair between shaking fingers and hung his head between his knees, and sobbed. Tear drops hit the lenses of his glasses and he ignored them in favor of shallow breathing. On the verge of hyperventilation.

Somewhere, in the edge of his mind, he heard the jingle of the bell that hung on the co-op's door, and the vague sound of a voice. "I just saw the news. Baby, I'm so sorry." Hands on his back and his arms, and the old woman sat beside him and held his head to her breast, and stroked his hair back from his face. She took his glasses off and folded them neatly. Rocked him just barely, and sang under her breath. A simple lullaby.

Chuck let himself cry on her.

She wouldn't let him take his bike home. She called her brother and had him come over with his pickup truck. He was a tall man with no hair and strong arms. He tied the bike down in the bed of his truck and all-but lifted Chuck into the cab. He drove him home, and even helped Chuck put away his groceries. (For which Chuck was grateful. He never would have gotten around to it.) And then he left Chuck all alone in his duplex.

Chuck's phone chose that moment to ring loudly. He nearly jumped out of his skin—it was so loud in the silence of his kitchen. He sat down and debated whether he should answer it or not. But it was his father. So he answered, voice hoarse and small and shaking.

"Chuck, are you alright—No, you're not are you. Tell me what you need." Chuck's father spoke fast and worried and barely allowed Chuck time to squeak before saying, "I'm coming down tonight. I already left. I'm at a gas station right now." Of course, he'd known. No way he wouldn't have known—not with Chuck worrying to him about Michael and then immediately texting such a thing. "I need you." Of course he knew.

Chuck just made a sort of affirmative sound. "See you tonight." He rubbed his eyes and chewed on his lip.

"I'll see you soon. Be safe, buddy. Take a nap. I love you."

"Love you too, daddy." That was all Chuck could really think of to say. He hung up. Leaned his forehead against the cool table and let out a long, tremulous sigh. A couple of tears leaked down the side of his nose.

* * *

Chuck tried to occupy his mind—he got his drill from the depths of the closet, and he set about putting little holes in the shell Michael had given him in June. He put a jump ring, silver and shiny, through the holes, and strung the shell onto a piece of hemp string he had in his junk drawer. Then he tied it around his neck, and sat on the couch feeling exhausted, and sick to his stomach.

He turned on his DVD player—please, anything but breaking news, anything but the story of a fatal boating accident off the Oregon coast, anything but that. He put in Lilo & Stitch, and he grabbed one of his bottles of wine from the kitchen.

He drank straight from the bottle.

When he heard the sound of a car engine, and someone knocked at his door, Chuck had drunk all of his wine. Two full bottles.

He could hardly see. He felt his way down the hall. Shouted something vague when the knock came again, louder, more insistent. He almost fell over trying to unlock the front door, and again trying to open it. He tripped on his own feet.

His father caught him. Scooped him up into his arms as easy as picking up a kitten and kicked the door shut behind him with a soft, sad, "Oh, sweetheart." He carried him down the hall, up the stairs. Chuck clung to him, even as he laid him down in his bed.

Mr. Shurley didn't make him let go. Instead, he sat down with his son and held him like a child, gently rubbing his back and murmuring quietly to him. Chuck lay limply in his arms and cried very quietly. He could barely remember what he was supposed to be sad about, he was so drunk, but he knew it was something important. He fondled the shell around his neck with clumsy, cold fingers.

At some point, Chuck found himself with his forehead against the toilet seat and his dad holding him steady.

He blacked out for a while.

He didn't wake up until almost twenty-four hours later, to a dark room—the curtains were drawn tight and let in only the barest sliver of daylight. He rolled onto his side and groaned, regretting it immediately. His head felt like it might implode any minute and his mouth tasted awful and he just felt like shit all over. His arm was asleep, too. He grumbled to himself and decided to see if he could stand. Bad idea. The bedroom reeled, and he had to catch hold of his bed or he would have fallen flat on his face.

He threw up again and brushed his teeth at least three times. He ran a bath. Just as the tub looked to be nice and full, as he was turning the faucet off, his dad came into the room. His sleeves were rolled up and his hands were floury. "You okay?" He looked concerned. Of course he looked concerned. Who isn't concerned when their son drinks himself into a stupor? Of course.

Chuck just shrugged, as he stripped down. He sat in the tub and curled up with his knees against his chest in the hot water. "Feel awful."

"I know, I know." His father sat beside the bathtub and laid a hand on his shoulder.

They stayed like that until a timer went off downstairs, and then Chuck's dad went back to the kitchen to do whatever he was doing. Chuck splished around a bit. Leaned back and closed his eyes and focused on the hum of the bathroom fan. No matter what he did, though, there was that nagging little thought. Cruel little words—"Michael is dead." His eyes burned.

When he finally got out and went downstairs, in his softest pajamas, his father was just taking a pan of what seemed to be biscuits out of the oven. There was a casserole dish on the counter, too, with a lid. Chuck sat down at the table and watched him bustle around.

After a few minutes, his dad set a glass of water, a banana, and a plate of eggs with a biscuit on the side in front of him. "Eat." he said. Gave Chuck a stern look, and sat down across from him with his own plate.

Chuck picked at his food, but he did eventually eat it all. And his father made him drink a lot of water. Slowly, he started to feel better, bit by bit. Or at least, his headache dissipated. He still felt sad and he still felt sick, but in a nervous kind of way and not in a mild alcohol poisoning kind of way.

They sat watching each other quietly.

After a few minutes—"If you ever drink that much again I _will_ slap you and ground you for the rest of your life." Chuck's dad held up a finger. "I don't care how old you are. I can still ground you, dammit."

Chuck scoffed.

His dad glowered at him for about half a second before his expression softened. "I'm sorry."

A shrug, and Chuck looked down at the tabletop. He rubbed his itchy eyes. They wouldn't stop watering, and only got worse the more he rubbed them, but he didn't care.

"Someone stopped by with a letter, while you were in the bath." Mr. Shurley retrieved a thin white envelope from the counter and slid it across the table to Chuck.

Chuck opened it with slightly unsteady hands, and pulled out a notecard and a check. The notecard said, in smeary red ink, "I feel like this is my fault. Sorry. – Nick" Chuck grimaced and set the note aside. He didn't want to think about Michael's older brother, especially if the man somehow thought he'd caused his death. He looked at the check. Blinked. Rubbed his face.

It was made out to Chuck, for $50,000.

He didn't know what the fuck he was gonna do with that money so he signed it, scribbled endorsement stuff on the back, and gave it to his dad. "I'm not leaving the house. I don't care what you do with it."

Chuck's dad frowned and after a moment's hesitation he put it in his wallet.

Later in the day he went to the bank and cashed it, and deposited most of it into a savings account he'd set up a long time ago—an account for the whole family, basically. For him and Chuck. The rest of the money, he gave to Chuck. A few thousand dollars in cash. Chuck folded up the bills and tucked them into his sock drawer.

Chuck's dad slept on the couch while he stayed with Chuck. He kept him from drinking too much—but couldn't prevent him from drinking a beer or two each day. Couldn't bring himself to throw it all away, somehow, even though he knew it made Chuck feel worse to drink. They both knew better—both had bad experiences—but still Mr. Shurley mostly just tried to support Chuck as best he could while Chuck continued to drink on a fairly regular basis.

Every day, Chuck felt weak and tired. He got headaches, and he napped constantly, and his chest hurt all the time. And he cried a lot. The crying really made his headaches worse, and dried him out, and exhausted him until all he did was lay in bed with his laptop and watch movies. He exchanged a few emails with his editor. Authorized her to do anything she asked.

A week and a half progressed like this, and he felt worse and worse each day. Slept more and more. Was struck by constant pangs through his ribs and arms.

He felt like he was dying.

His father reassured him it would pass. He'd lost people before, he knew. Even though it hurt a lot in the moment, it would stop eventually.

Chuck didn't believe him. And he was right to disbelieve, because one night Chuck laid himself down in bed, with the windows open to the sound of the sea, with his shell on its string around his neck, and in the morning he didn't wake up.

The doctors said it was probably takotsubo cardiomyopathy—broken heart syndrome. Too much stress, too much booze, too much everything all at once in a flurry of pain.

Chuck's dad just took it all in. He'd done this before, he could do it again. Though he'd never had to make funeral arrangements for his own child. Had hoped he never would need to. But it was too late now.

But he sat down in the hospital and thought to himself, "So it goes." He thought, "So it fucking goes."

* * *

"[...] members of a duprass always die within one week of each other." - Kurt Vonnegut, _Cat's Cradle_


End file.
